Relapse to Remission
by Mr. Snarks
Summary: After four years, the grudge is the only thing that remains unchanged. The game is different now; no "new girl" routine, no harmless mutual pranks, no "going steady" as the humans say, with social subtlety abandoned in favor of a good-old fashioned hunt. Someone must play predator and someone must act as prey, and as the tension builds, the line becomes harder to cross. Light ZATR
1. Chapter 1

**Earth**

**Four Years Post-Point Insertion**

Zim had been walking down the sidewalk when he noticed that no one ever joined him in this part of town before, let alone mimicked his route home.

He had a tail.

He'd grown suspicious (well, more suspicious than usual) when he'd left school grounds, only to find, via several nonchalant peers over his shoulder and glances at reflections in storefront windows, that he realized the figure keeping step twenty meters behind him was not only close to his height but of nearly identical build and posture. This lead to the conclusion that his tail must have equal to his facade Earthling age, as he had yet to meet any adult human that matched that psychical description.

But something else hit him: No other children from that _awful_ human education center lived in his district. He kept weekly tabs on the worm-spawns that bordered his base on all sides, and none of them had offspring who were enrolled at Skool, and none of them ventured this far out of the "cul de sac." Not even the Dib-Stink spent time in this area, less he find it necessary to detour on his way home in order to inquisition Zim about diabolical schemes he may or may not have been doodling on during detention, and he knew for a fact that Dib always took a different route to his home unit.

He knew this because the two had been in detention less than an hour ago, which is why it was already growing dark as the planet entered it's night cycle. Upon release from the mind-numbing work camp, Dib and Zim traded vengeful glares and went their separate ways, only they didn't. Zim was no fool; if someone was to be stalked, Zim would be the stalker. Utilizing various stealth tactics acquired while stationed on Irk as well as the petering daylight, the Invader tracked Dib from the front gates of Skool all the way to his residential zone, all while going unnoticed, all to make sure that the overzealous human wasn't preparing to hatch some kind of ploy. But nothing was bared, and Zim waited until the Dib-Stink had locked his front entrance to double back and take a different route back to his own housing district.

That's how he knew his follower was a foreign party, and that's how he knew his follower had been on his six since he exited Skool, for the whole time Zim was keeping his vigil on Dib, he was also keeping a tab on the shadowy, enigmatic figure that always seemed to dart behind a fence of duck fluidly into the nearest alleyway when Zim bluffed a showy motion to turn around. And it went like that for some time.

This rogue may have been considered something special wherever _it_ hailed from, but Zim was better; he was Irken, he was an _Invader. _

But despite all the things he kept telling himself he knew about the situation, that all-important factor eluded him still: The identity.

All he had was what he could see through the darkening glass around him. The figure was dressed in dark attire, and wore a simple mask to conceal its face, as well as some kind of goggles. It had a backpack as well, noticeably hefty with supplies that most likely didn't spell good news for the Irken. He looked forward to relieving this person of their gear.

Zim rounded a corner and was temporarily concealed by a wooden fence with small gaps in between each plank of the primitive structure. He looked over his shoulder, the slits between the wood zipping by like flash cards, and he saw the choppy sight of the figure rushing to keep Zim within visual range.

Zim utilized his precious time in the blind and reached into his PAK, fishing around for something specific. What he pulled out was a can of hairspray.

How he'd come to posses such a strange human follicle accessory was part of the explanation as to why he'd been in detention in the first place. As is fate, Dib and Zim had tolerated just a little too much of each other's presence this day, and when push came to shove, things had gotten ugly fast.

While Dib had struck the first blow, Zim was careful not to strike back in earnest so quickly, less his training get the better of him and he blow his own cover. Instead, Zim did his faux-best at blocking the worm-baby's sloppy, albeit forceful punches until the duo was pushed near a group of human females, one of whom was tending to her scalp with a spray can she'd had in her locker, which itself was overloaded with various other vibrant tonics and whatnot. When Zim was forced against the wall he made a grab for the girl's spray and kicked Dib away, following up with a blast of the foul-smelling pale mist to his already foul-smelling, pale face.

They were both dragged away pretty quickly; Dib went full-psycho after that and the poisonous Earth-gas drifted backwards into Zim's face, searing it in a display of ironic blow-back. However, he'd managed to hide the spray bottle away for future study or, in this case, necessary improvisation.

The piercing, harsh scent of a human outdoor roast caught a hold of his senses and he followed it while trying to stay unconcerning; just a normal, boring human boy seeking out the source of a "delicious" odor.

His tail didn't seem any wiser. Zim kept the spray can close to his chest, making it seem as thought he was folding his hands in front of him at a glance from behind.

After about five more minutes of steadily strolling along, Zim found the odor's epicenter: A family of humans were hosting a gathering in their front yard, and a decent-sized crowd was dividing itself between a table of grotesque Earthling food, a metallic, dome-like machine used for (apparently) preparing meat and tended by a gleeful human male in a stained white apron reading "All of God's Creatures Fresh Off the Grill," and, more importantly, a crowd of drolling children roasting treats over an open fire. The flames were going strong, searing their sugary morsels much to their and Zim's delight. A twisted grin etched it's face across his face.

The human tending the grilling machine waved heartily at Zim as he passed, and Zim waved back, right before he used his razor-sharp claws to jab a hole in the pressurized spray can, causing a jet of whistling gas to shoot out like blood from a vein, and chucking the whistling container into the fire ring.

It burst almost immediately. No one was hurt- the humans all had the cognitive sense to dive to safety before the small explosion rocked their gala. The sound was considerably more than Zim had been ready for, but it was all to his advantage. Such an act of unprovoked vandalism and violence was sure to attract the attention of the human law enforcement, and _then_ they'd see who was the better hunter.

Zim ignored the profanities being screamed at him and fought the urge to turn around and bid a gloating sneer at his follower, opting instead to take off in a made sprint through the fleeing humans' yard. The chase was on now.

He wasted no time in planning his immediate escape. For now he wanted to put as many obstacles between he and the stalker as possible, give himself time to turn the tables and organize some sort of ambush. Luckily, Zim had undergone the vigorous Irken training courses, and was adept at finding means of escape. They were taught to move like water over rocks, adapt their movements to any environment, which in this case would definitely mean mostly fences and other walls.

First he dove right over the crackling fire, rolling on the other side of it as the worm-babies scattered and Zim come up running. He neared the segment of chain-link fence that separated the front yard from the back and saw a cubic metal cooling unit right next to it. He ran, sprung up off the cooling unit and grabbed onto the jingling wind chime hanging above him, swinging over the fence and gracefully landing on the other side. He ran across the back yard, vaulting another fence and running through their rear neighbor's yard.

This human's domicile was considerably messier than the former one's. All throughout the yard were discarded toys and assorted rusty engine parts, as well as glass bottles, both broken and intact, and several species of plant that had grown much to large to be considered "weeds" anymore. The fence leading to this housing unit's yard was not only in poor construction but was being overtaken by vines and other horrid plant growth. In the house's windows he saw his pursuer hopping the fence and making it's way across last yard.

Luckily the back door of this house slid open and a homely, hairy and overweight male in a tattered white top and boxers slouched out of it, a juicy steak in hand and a ravenous looking canine at his feet. The man tossed the steak out into the yard and Zim ducked it, knowing the consequences of skin contact with human meats. _This_ meat must have been intended for the dog, but the vile creature was more interested in the strange green boy intruding on its territory. It lashed out after him, it's master trying to coax it back upon realizing the situation.

As hardened a death machine as he was, Zim would admit to a crippling fear of dogs. He could understand _humans_ well enough and was growing more and more skilled at detecting when they might break into fits of violence (mostly attributed to his rivalry with Dib), but the canine creatures were sporadic and unpredictable. That, and they hand fangs that made Zim's look like a newly born smeet's.

Zim screamed continuously as he jumped and slid over the plastic picnic table before him, the dog getting closer and closer. When his feet touched soil again he bolted into the messy human's home. The whole time, the human was blathering something about "Lucy bein' a good lil' dog when she ain't so darn hungry" and Zim exclaiming that she was not. He executed a deep double-kong vault to cross the man's dinner table and punched through the screen door leading to the front porch.

He stopped himself with a gasp at the porch's rail and looked back, hoping to see the human's savage canine pet deterring his assailant to some degree, or even disposing of it permanently, saving Zim the trouble. What he saw was quite the opposite.

The dog did indeed engage the mysterious opponent, but the figure seemed not only ready, but _willing._ Both its hands came up to halt the dog when it dove for the person's throat and one knee came up to strike the creature in the abdomen. Then, the dog ceased all growling and acts of violence towards the rogue and actually let it ride on its back, charging back through the house and after it's original prey.

"_Oh great."_

Zim wasted no time in vaulting the rail and dashing onward, not wanting to become a little green chew toy; such a fate was in no way fitting for the likes of _Zim. _

There was no fence in the front yard but there were several cars parked along the sides of the road as there were very few driveways in this area. Zim didn't let that slow him down, sliding sleekly over the hood of the car nearest him and coming down in the middle of the street- just in time to come face-to-face with a massive street cleaning vehicle.

He let out a sound akin to a yelp and was about to press himself against the car, hoping to save his life, when he saw opportunity._ "I am a genius."_

He did indeed let the large vehicle pass, but not before he jumped forward and clung to the exterior, riding away and letting out a triumphant laugh of victory.

He watched with condescending joy as the rogue and its mangy mount arrived on the sidewalk only to be treated to the sight of its mark rumbling away on the human vehicle. The figure hopped off the creature and gave it a kick, causing it to retreat back inside, whimpering.

For a moment, it just stood there, and through Zim's augmented eyesight, he could see its head hunch and fists clench in apparent rage. Something about the way it carried itself was actually deeply unsettling, like there was an undertone of something deeper than whatever assumed motive had driven Zim to run in the first place. Like there was an ulterior goal that was worse.

He didn't let that spoil the moment, and he quickly pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He'd won the day, made a clean escape and now he was entitled to some long-awaited gloating. He continued his demented howl of self-serving laughter, even as the figure started running after the street cleaner along the sidewalk, a full view of it still obscured by the droves of automobiles that kept zipping past. It would only be a matter of time until he was well out of sight.

Something interrupted his cackling. At first he thought it was simply the sound of this human service vehicle preforming its functions, attempting to keep this world slightly less filthy. But the sound didn't match anything he'd heard before. Not on Earth.

He traced the noise and his eyes stopped on something that quelled his laughter for good: A magnetized plasma grenade.

The metallic disc was the size of his palm and the ring around its edge was blinking green, a green that started to radically change to red. Zim knew that meant he had about five second left to get clear of the blast radius.

The sight of the explosive kicked him back in high gear and he announced it with a spastic cry as he leaped off the vehicle.

Zim landed on the roof of one of the many parked cars and rolled on instinct, tumbling to the sidewalk as a sizable explosion rocked where he'd been just moments ago. Nobody seemed to notice the blast (stupid, oblivious humans...) but the street cleaner came to a stop and its driver stepped out, in hysterics. "What in the _hell!?_" was all Zim could distinguish, amongst other expletives.

The rogue that had pursued him could no longer be considered a "pursuer." He'd made an attempt on his life, _Zim's!_ And he did so with an air of reluctance, like he'd rather dispose of Zim up close and in person, but wasn't above blowing him to bits with what was obviously Irken weaponry. He was no longer stalking; this entity was an _attacker._

The alien got to his feet and checked behind him. Sure enough, his opponent was dashing at him, its form and pace disciplined. For a moment, Zim remembered his own training again.

"_So that's how it's gonna be, eh?"_ he thought as he readied himself for a fight.

Zim made the first move. As the attacker bared down on him he grabbed the car door to his left, thankful that it was unlocked, and tore it open, causing his opponent to crash into it, caught off guard. It stumbled and Zim took the initiative, punching through the glass and striking the figure in the jaw. He then reached through and grabbed its shoulders, pulling it halfway through the window frame and ensnaring the rogue in a neck hold.

"_Who_ are you?" he hissed. "_Who sent you here!?_" he exclaimed next. "You dare try and kill _me?_ _Zim!?_ You've bitten off more than you could _ever_ hope to swallow, assassin."

The person was struggling now. Zim knew the manner in which to escape a sleeper hold, and all of those means were nullified by the car door between the two. However, his victim seemed to know as well, and twisted its head so its neck was in the crook of Zim's elbow, buying the assailant some time. Zim tightened his vice accordingly.

He repeated slowly "Who sent you here?"

Just then, the tables turned once again. Showing off remarkable dexterity and flexibility, the mystery person swung its legs over the top of the car door, crossing them around Zim's skull and lunging backwards, literally throwing him several feet down on its side. The rogue emitted a shrill grunt and stood back up, but Zim reacted with a sweep kick, knocking the assailant off its feet.

Zim used the time it took for his attacker to recover to think of an escape plan. The situation had obviously changed some, all in the spans of three minutes. He wasn't prepared to grapple with someone who could actually hold their own, as well as someone armed with off-world tech. Too many variables he hadn't accounted for, too many potential witnesses (although, to be fair, no one seemed to notice when a street cleaner nearly exploded, but with Zim's luck, two children fighting on the sidewalk would attract the attention of everyone in the district).

And then Zim remembered something: The law enforcement. He'd neglected to notice their sirens, which had been growing progressively louder and more imminent since the beginning of this whole debacle. He couldn't stick around any longer, even if it meant answers. He had to keep running, find a new way back to his base.

Both of them seemed to be thinking similar things. An arrest would complicate things for both of them. He wanted to say something, but proper words eluded him. He wanted to pop off something clever and perky, like "See you around the neighborhood" or "Better luck next time, armature," but time was of the essence. Instead, he threw a narrow glare at his newest enemy and ran off, and an unspoken taunt hung in the air between them, mutually acknowledged:

"_You want me? Come and get me."_

Once more, Zim slid strait-legged over the hood of a car and dashed through another yard, moving between two houses on the left side of the street. He knew this new entity would follow him, but for now he didn't much care. His primary concern was avoiding human police.

He kept running between the houses and came to another wooden fence, several feet taller than he was. He stepped into the fence and run up it, climbing over and landing on the other side. Instead of continuing on to the next street over, he started running lawn to lawn heading west, hopping fences until he reached the main road several streets down.

He climbed over one last fence until he was clear. He quickly assumed an innocent posture, burying his hands in his pockets and whistling quietly to himself, just as several police cars zoomed by, oblivious to his presence.

Ah, the pleasure of being incognito. The endorphins of survival rushed through him and his antenna were twitching under his hairpiece. He let out a satisfied sigh, slicked back his artificial hair and began a steady jog towards the human bottling plant just up the road. He'd lose his little friend in there for sure and then double back like he'd planned.

It had been some time since he'd really been put to the test. It wasn't everyday one was expected to remember techniques learned several decades ago (in Irken years, at least), especially as of late. He'd been on earth for four years now, and in the past three he'd been through little of what many- especially his ilk- would call "substantial." In fact, in the back of his mind, he was starting to think that this wretched planet had made him soft, "out of practice," so to speak. Aside from the regularly anticipated scuffles with Dib and the occasional unrestrained dog, his routine lacked the same edge that required the state of suspicious alertness he once depended on during his first year here. It was almost like Earth was warming to him, or worse, he to it.

But such was obviously not the case. Oh, if only the Tallest could have seen him. This little exercise was just what he needed. He felt invigorated. He felt refreshed. _Renewed._ That three minute chase reminded him of who he was. He was, is, and always has been and _Invader_, and always will be. If the Earth wanted to yield to him- wanted to lull itself into a misplaced sense of security because of his prolonged presence- _let it._ It would only make things that much more sweat when the time came to wipe it clean.

Zim was feeling like himself again, and for that, he was happy.

And that's what he told himself.

* * *

This human factory was quite large, albeit less of an eyesore than most Earthen industrial sites, making it seem less conspicuous that it was located in a suburban area. Upon approach it smelled heavily of organic materials, something he didn't recognize by name but had definitely detected in that cesspool those worms back at school called a mess hall. The sign out in front read "Johnny Marzetti, est. 1919." Strange.

Regardless of what it smelled like, Zim had to get within it's boundaries and disappear for the time being. He had eluded his predator thus far, but only momentarily. Call it a hunch, but Zim didn't peg this individual as being one to give up easily, or after a single defeat. After all, it had thrown a _grenade_ at him, in a _densely populated_ civilian zone that was already ripe with authorities thanks to yours truly. Any sense of subtlety or discretion was tossed into the wind the second Zim had ruined that human cookout. This...this _rogue element_ wasn't an artist by any means, but was still a considerable threat.

Zim crossed the blacktop and ducked into a line of shrubs. They weren't big, but they did a descent job of concealing him from the average human. He then removed a device from his PAK that resembled a monocle, but obviously more advanced. This device was normally reserved for the Irken special forces but Zim had made sure to snatch a few "toys" to play with before his hasty departure form the Massive four years ago.

He licked a finger and rubbed it along the bio-adhesive and pressed the optics to his eye socket. Any piece of tech that had a temporary bond also had a tendency to burn slightly, but he ignored it. The paper-thin screen locked down in front of his left eye and a readout became visible. Another identical holographic screen materialized over his other eye. Zim blinked three times to calibrate and blinked once more to exit the tutorial menu, grunting to himself "Zim needs no instructions..."

Without further adieu, he poked his green head out of the bushes and looked around, looking specifically for the security cameras located all around the factory grounds.

Utilizing one of the eyepiece's functions, he was able to see a digital manifestation of the camera's line of sight, and more importantly, the blind spots.

After that, infiltration was effortless. Human countermeasures were notoriously simple, but this was almost _too_ easy. He actually took time out of his approach to flirt with the edges of the camera's vision, dancing a little jig all the way to the first fence. In broad daylight, no less.

He regained his "professional" composure and scaled the chain-link. This barrier was much higher than those before and backed by a sheet of green metal, making it so Zim actually had to climb the old-fashioned way. The sharp thistles of rusty metal wire weren't any more pleasant, either. So, so crude...

"Soon I'll be seeing spike pits filled with feces..." he lamented to himself.

He carefully crawled over the barbed wire and dropped soundlessly on the other side. From there he made his way over several smaller fences until he was at the factory proper.

After about fifteen minutes utilizing all four limbs, he found himself on an elevated vantage point that was well out of ground level view. With a snicker he leaned around a large vertical pipeline to inspect the way he'd come.

He saw little different. His optics detected nothing and his Irken intuition sensed nothing other than the increasingly distasteful scent of human salad dressing.

Well, all he had to do now was wait. He deactivated his eyepiece, peeled it from his face with a twitch of discomfort and stowed it back away in his PAK. He found a comfortable spot and laid back, crossing his legs and taking in the last remnants of the Earth's sunset. Oddly, it was one of the few things about this world that he found pleasing. That, combined with the steady breeze, lulled him into a state of leisure that he honestly welcomed, a fair departure from the urgency of late.

It was strangely nice up here. The wind picked up and drove off the now-vile odors, so the scene was complete. He thought of spending the remainder of the evening up here, but quickly dismissed the idea; human security or maintenance would undoubtedly catch wind of the teenage delinquent trespassing on their grounds come morning and Gir and Minimoose would be expecting him home any minute now. Honestly, he felt more like a smeetmother than an Invader sometimes...

He groaned and sat up. He was careful with his footing; his boots had all the necessary grip but he was in a rather precarious position up here. Then he realized how quickly the wind was building in intensity, _roaring_ almost.

"What in the..." he almost said, before he turned. There, starring him in the face, was something he never thought he'd see again on this planet. Scratch that, something he never thought he'd see when _he_ wasn't the one behind the helm: And Irken Voot Cruiser. And the weapons he knew all too well were dialed right at him.

Zim decided that he had a better chance at jumping than...well, much of anything, really. Just ten feet away was a set of metal scaffolding that he could use to work his way downward. All he had to do was get to it before he was blown away. He smelled the emulsion coming off the rotary plasma cannons (most likely modified) and took a breath. He jumped, just as his prior position was burned away in spectacular fashion.

He just barely made the grab, only one gloved hand having the good fortune to stay put. The rest of his body flopped forward under the metal beam, and ultimately took him tumbling with it. He inadvertently swung forward and collided with another beam, stopping his momentum in a second. After that all he had left to do was fall.

"Curse yooouuu...!" he bellowed in fractions as he bounced roughly off every structure on the way down. First he clocked the back of his skull on a horizontal pipeline and then recoiled off an air duct. It went on like this for about ten stories.

Zim could sense the ground growing nearer and he fought through his blurring vision and the mounting pain and activated his PAK's spider legs. Without a moment's pause the metallic tendrils sprouted out and caught him, buckling slightly as they absorbed the shock of the fall. He grunted as he nearly snapped himself in half. They retracted, leaving him crumpled on the ground.

Regardless of his high pain threshold or combat conditioning, _that_ hurt. He felt like each of his joints had been hit with a sledge hammer, his head was throbbing with an aching soreness and he was having trouble seeing out of his left eye. He sat up and immediately felt a lurch in his gut, followed by more pain. When he clenched his jaw, he tasted blood. By the Tallest, had he bitten his tongue?

He had no time to dwell on his wounds. That cruiser was still up there, most likely scanning for his signature from above, ready to carpet bomb this entire neighborhood to complete whatever sinister objective had targeted him.

He struggled to his feet and began skulking hastily through the mess of pipes and ductwork, avoiding the patches of moonlight that were the only sources of illumination at this point. His Irken eyes saw easily through the night's murk, and he could only assume that the same was true for his assailant. That voot could have thermal optics for all he knew, making any attempt at evasion futile, but if that was the case, why hadn't he been blown to smithereens yet?

After all the trouble they'd put each other through, this entity must have finally decided that this was going to be done up close and personal, "mono-e-mono" as the humans would say. Regardless, Zim tried to make his escape. A whole web of pipelines interconnected above him, the patterns occasionally broken by the occasional substation or ventilation system. Zim clung to the shadows, limping awkwardly to come to a stop beside a cubic metal construct. He peered around the corner and skyward. His large, drooping eyes (one of which had a nasty bruise above it) and agape frown belayed his sense of levelheadedness. Or did it? Zim shook his head and whipped the thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

He saw nothing circling upward. He took a breath, checked his sectors, and bolted ahead.

He crouched and hunched his way under a series of low-hanging horizontal pipelines, the pipes hot to the touch, he discovered quickly. He emerged on the other side of the tangled metal mess and sprinted ahead, vaulting over the ground-level air exchange vent and dropping down into what he could only discern was a subterranean maintenance duct. It wasn't even very subterranean; just a seven feet-deep, five feet-wide trench with a metal grating sitting over top of it, save one section where Zim had made his entrance.

He knew this spot was secure as could be. The grating overhead would normally act as a dangerous vantage point, but the building that sat on the cusp of the trench offered an ample shadow to hide the Irken from any opposing eyes, and there was no safe angle to beam a spotlight from, either. Along with ample concealment, the concrete around him was sure to cause some kind of difficulty with whatever technology was being used to futilely hound him. Thirdly, if Zim were tracking a target and Zim had somehow been out-juked, he would have called off the chase the second his prey disappeared into this accordion knot these humans called a factory. He should be safe here.

Despite all these attributes telling him otherwise, why did he have this sense of gloom hanging in his mind like a bad itch? He was no stranger to being stalked and chased, shot at and nearly blown apart (twice), and he liked to think he was good under pressure. But still, something was eating away at his sense of stability. Call it a hunch- or hell, call it crazy- but he couldn't help but think that he had a hand in this, like this was some kind of long forgotten consequence...like a punishment of some sort.

He could not allow himself to be caught. Eventually, paranoia trumped better judgment.

He found the darkest corner of the trench and gulped at his decision to shut down his PAK.

This game of cat and mouse could only escalate further, and Zim was not about to be inadvertently done in by the very same machine that kept him alive.

"Desperate times..." Zim started to mumble before realizing that this was a rare moment when he needed to silence himself. He took a deep breath.

This state-of-the-art piece of equipment did indeed store everything that made his kind function; short-term memories, neural implants, biological augmentation, basic life support and nutrition subsentence- anything an Irken needed, but especially and Invader. With it, a shock trooper can operate as his own self-contained unit, independent and deadly. But without it, that very same Irken is prone to nausea, headaches, partial numbness, hypoxia and nerve damage within a half hour; muscle spasms, dementia and internal bleeding within two hours; and lung collapse, kidney failure, blindness and an inevitable slow and painful death before the day is out.

However, many a persistent and hardy Irken have been known to resort to "unplugging" when a dire situation calls for it, and many have lived to tell the tale. After all, being 100% reliant on the PAK would have been Irk's downfall had his people not learned to operate while compromised. As long as he reintegrated before the first hour was up, there'd be no lasting damage. Until then though, he'd have to bite the bullet.

He sent a quick, untraceable binary message to GIR, ordering him to prepare the lab for emergency medical duties and then killed the channel. He would have loved to signal GIR coordinates to have him bring down his own Voot Cruiser and show this masked worm-spawn Zim's policy on assassins, but anything quicker than his former message would have gotten him zeroed. Now there was just one thing left to do.

He sighed once more and went through the steady, warning-strewn set-up of deactivating his PAK. With every diagnostic he ran and every warning screen he voided he felt more and more apprehensive. Even the inanimate machine was doubting his decision. It was either this, or his PAK's signal be picked up on a modified counsel and lead to his untimely death.

One more hologram was clicked away before he suddenly felt a considerable weight between his shoulder blades appear as if out of nowhere. Normally, the PAK eliminated it's own weight via a small anti-grav core, but now it just hung there, dormant.

Zim felt nothing at first. The inertia of sudden pain was not a mystery to him, but the naïve smeet in him was still quietly- _desperately_- hoping that no such pain would come, like some kind of cosmic-defying exception would be made for him. But such an idea was almost as foolish as shutting off one's PAK in the first place.

The shock caught up to him in waves as his body tried to quickly relearn all the evolution his people had skirted with their technology. It two words, it was _extraordinarily uncomfortable. _

Zim cringed in silence and curled into a fetal ball in the corner as the PAK de-grafted itself from his vertebra, feeling a cold sensation shoot up and down his spinal column followed by a stinging pain. His skin was rumbled by "goosebumps" as his pores all opened simultaneously, having to oxidate on their own for the first time in ages. He gasped, and suddenly felt the foulness of human air being forced down his through and pumped into his out-of-practice lungs. It tasted horrible.

His nerves began to fire at random but constant intervals. He broke down in a small, pseudo-controlled seizure. His muscles constricted and loosened over and over and over. The roots of his teeth were each shocked once with a searing pain than made his mouth hang open, emitting a barely-audible moan of agony. He was dying. He felt like his body was tearing itself apart.

Finally, among several other disturbing bodily adjustments, all of his optical enhancements were nullified, leaving him scrunched up in the solid darkness, already feeling his body going into clinical shock, feeling like every passing moment was contaminating him beyond repair, like a fish out of water. Every breath felt like a self-poisoning.

His posture broke and his collapsed in a heap. Every vein in his face was bulging as his body drenched itself with flop sweat. His eyes felt like they were shriveling up but he couldn't close them; they just stayed open, wide as they could be and then some, the pupils, shrinking and then dilating as they learned how to see in the dark again.

A long, trembling gasp left his throat as a single tear bled down his face.

After that he nearly blacked out- _nearly._ He _forced_ himself to stay conscious.

"N-_No_..."

He knew that to pass out was to admit defeat, defeat to his _own faulty body._ That was _not_ an option, and never would be. He _willed_ himself back to a sitting position. He held himself and quivered in the corner, the worst past now, and now simply trying to suffer through the aftershocks with some shred of dignity. Oh, if the Tallest had seen him earlier...

He felt a strange urge to contact GIR. Or _anyone._ He just wanted to talk, talk to someone. A crushing sense of loneliness started to flood his conscience. He blamed his body; simply hormones re-stabilizing, resulting in awkward emotional discharge, in this case, a desire for the company of others, for the comfort of camaraderie.

Images appeared before him. They were vague at first, simply shapeless manifestations of errant thoughts and..._feelings_, he consented. He could do little else but watch them in a catatonic state; that cruiser was still gunning for him and he was in no condition to continue onward.

He saw shrouds of doubt, clouds of hope, puddles of melancholy and molten seas of some other unknown emotion. The images began to evolve and before he knew it, he was looking into the ethereal face of his fatally loyal robot servant GIR.

_GIR. _What could he say about GIR. He _could_ say a whole plethora of things, utilizing a vast vocabulary of creative expletives, but he found it strangely hard to stay mad the damned thing. Oftentimes he found himself teetering on the brink of madness at the unknowing hands of the child-like SIR Unit. It was defective. It was annoying. It was _dangerous_, above all else. So many plans had been laid to waste by the screeching monstrosity that posed as a canine when in view of others more fortunate than Zim, and the worst part is that the machine didn't know it. It honestly thought it was helping, assuming it actually _thought_ at all, exhibiting about as much impulse control as the _second_ thorn in his existence's side...Dib.

_Dib. _The overzealous, under-qualified and insane representation of all he hated in this world. He was the icon of human arrogance and stubborn futility. _He_ was the reason Zim's life had become so horribly difficult since he was first stationed on this dirt ball. But the harder he tried to hate him, the more a polarized, opposing emotion began to bleed into his thoughts. Dib was his enemy, but also gave him a purpose. Dib kept him on his toes, kept him sharp. Dib reminded him of why he was here in the first place.

Zim shook his head once again. He could call the Dib-Stink whatever he may in his fever dream-state, but the facts couldn't be warped; that human scum was his enemy and little else. The only thing that gave him more grief than Dib on a day-to-day basis was the _other_ one, the dark, edgy, unstable and honestly-scary demon-seed that was his enemy's younger sister Gaz.

_Gaz._ The very name filled him with a sour, venomous gloom. She was nothing short of a singularity of apathy, and all of his Earthly sufferings were projected onto her. The tortuous, unfeeling vixen, she was; posing as a dirtied flower that wouldn't hesitate to prick you with a needle of poison and damned carbonated beverages. A whole slew of emotions and opinions crowded him whenever she entered his senses, for whatever reason. Painful (obviously) came to mind, followed quickly by scorn, aversion and something _less_ flattering. Those were trumped by curiosity, playfulness and competition, like a lighter mix of the signals he received from her irate sibling. Honestly, he could reach no idealogical conclusion about Little Gaz, save that no female, Irken or otherwise, had ever thrown him through so many loops in his lifetime.

Except...

"Except..." he heard himself mutter without meaning to.

"_Me."_

The voice was not his. Not Gaz's. Not Dib's nor GIR's.

Being in such a deep state of hormonal sedation, Zim didn't think he would be brought back to functioning consciousness so easily. But, as fate would have it, a boot to the face did just fine.

Needless to say, something hit him, and _hard. _


	2. Chapter 2

**The Massive**

**Four Years Prior**

A tall, stalky figure moved through a posh but sparsely-lit corridor. The only illumination stemmed from the edges of the metallic floor panels he so carefully treaded on, none of which could have made much a difference in the gloom or done anything to sap the Irken's foreboding.

Though, Tallest Red currently felt hate.

* * *

_The void of space lived up to its name; barren, desolate, godless. No nebula to light a fire to the crushing blackness, no vivid star clusters to distract from the infinite oblivion. _

_Few things broke away from the sea of darkness. Those that did are usually ushered back. But not all skeletons can be jammed in the closet, not all corpses can be swept under the rug. Sometimes, the ugly little head needs to make itself known._

* * *

Being of the highest rank of the most respected military faction in the galaxy (or so his underlings kept telling him), he had the good fortune of not having to exhibit a vast range of emotion. He knew no such thing as fear, doubt, regret or sadness. For what reason would he even have to? When the day was out, you could count his moods on one hand (an _Irken_ hand, no less): Bliss and Thrill. That's what he knew as life, just one long roller coaster ride, only the riding cart is a recliner and the ride is the conquest of known space.

But today was different. Red didn't like different; different implied the unknown, the unknown implied uneasiness which lead to shock which led to a whole myriad of negative sensations. Why should he have to experience such things? He was one of the Tallest, for Irk's sake. He was entitled to a certain degree of ignorance to that which wouldn't please him, as anyone in a position of power such as his should be. As his comrade Purple always said, "All I feel is 'full.'"

But he could have had his fill of all the rations on the Massive and still this rare, enrapturing feeling would have taken a hold of his squeedlyspooch with an iron grip. Though he couldn't be entirely sure, he was feeling pretty confident that this thing was called "hate."

Yeah, that sounded right.

Despite living the dream, Red was still a normal living being. Red hated many things; slow bandwidth, inept underlings, empty food dishes, crummy cushions, short Irkens, Skoodge and- vastly more important and deserving of his attention- he hated the contradictory, compartmentalized, "top-secret," eyes-only, and just down-right spooky cloak-and-dagger affair that was the Assets Bureau.

* * *

_Krolik's reptilian eyes always had trouble adjusting to this damned place. The bright, showy, pinkish hue that clung to the metal and the starchy overhead lighting all combined for a very rude awakening, be it for workers on morning duties or the poor sods that were now being called their precious cargo. But he tried not to think about that; it was too early for that. He swore, one more shit duty like this and he'd be taking this up with Meleck._

_For now, all he could find himself focusing on were the lights. They were solid moats of blinding whiteness that punished anyone who dared hold their head too high or, in Krolik's case, just didn't like the color pink. Sometimes he felt like they were literally _sizzling_, they were so bright. But then again, this place wasn't built to be a pleasure cruise; and he had a job to do._

_He shook his head clear of the lingering cobwebs of weariness as they ran in the tin cans. Within seconds, approximately fifty personal stasis pods were locked in two neat rows before him and the other loading dock personnel. He rolled his shoulder as they each chose a pod and prepared to wake up the sleeping beauties. _

Damn_, he wished they hadn't run out of coffee._

* * *

Tallest Red forced back a scowl as the lift pad descended the anti-grav shaft before him. He stepped on, thinking that the dim mauve lighting on this level had to be intentional; such a visit to such a department couldn't possibly have been made pleasant in the slightest way, could it? Nope, if they're gonna be shady, they'll bring the full package.

Being such a...well, _massive_ militarized empire that was matched by none other and consistently the victor over those who attempted, it went without saying that there were millions- _trillions_- of laypeople under he and Purple's command. But, as with any faction of their stature, they were prone to a few...leaks. After all, two people- Tallest though they were- couldn't keep tabs on every Irken under their command. Sometimes, things slip through their sphere of attention. They could only keep track of so many things at once. That's why a department existed so they wouldn't have to. That was the first reason Red was in a state of resentment; this whole branch's existence was essentially a totem to their inherent ineptitude.

* * *

_The floor master gave the careful and always-too-slow step-by-step instructions to each of the men working the main hanger. They each took a spot before a single pod. They were all drilled for the umpteenth time on what they should and shouldn't do, what would happen if they did otherwise and just generally every single thing each of them were already thinking. They'd all, more or less, learned to stop complaining in their first year aboard; sure, the repetition was maddening, but it also kept people sharp, kept'em from losing their minds. Most of the time. _

_Once the safety protocols were well-established, they prepared to unseal the capsules. The drama or surgical sensitivity most would expect was absent here- once again, they'd all been doing this for longer than they'd care to admit. They was no room for ceremony here; they had their orders and they'd carry them out. No icing, no ribbons and streamers. _

_For the most part, it all happened in unison. The chambers defrosted. The codes were entered and accepted. The glass shields were opened. The odd worker called out that his sleeper had died in cryo. Other than the odd stiff, things went off without a hitch. If your chosen sleeper was dead when you "woke" them, it just meant less work for you. Krolik envied them; he never got enough stiffs, and today was no different; this one he'd chosen this morning was definitely alive._

* * *

Officially titled the Bureau of Irken Assets and Liability, this splinter cell of the Irken authority pyramid was the branch in charge of indirectly handling all personnel, technology and logistical units currently deployed outside of the armada. On the holographic plaque that frizzled ever-so-arrogantly in their sector's foyer, it was stated that they were "The Empire's watchful eye, the guardian angel of Irk's finest."

In reality, they were little more than handlers and analysts; when agents were deployed in deep-cover operations on distant planets, the Bureau was always in the shadows of every council meeting, quietly archiving all the data gained not from the agent's reports, but of the agent itself, never speaking up or offering anything in the way of feedback. When soldiers sent back field reports, a liaison from the Bureau would be standing in the back of the room, taking it all in and disappearing before it was over. When the Control Brain ran a populace diagnostic, Tallest Red always had to forward a copy of the file to them. When a ship was damaged and casualties are sustained, _They_ always wanted to know how many. When the Tallest ran their yearly Trials on their invading forces, he always had to fill in the spooks, as well.

And when a volatile Irken agent goes dark in the farthest reaches of space, you could bet your hide that the BIA would want to know why, where and how.

* * *

_Krolik had been here for a good twenty years- an old lizard- and every one of those years he'd spent the majority of his time on "freezer duty," meaning he'd stopped taking close observations on the sleepers a long time ago. After a while, you just stop taking interest; they all start fading together, one poor sucker after another. They become four digit numbers and figures on monthly fiscal reports. _

_But today was just a bit different. For some reason, despite the day's beginning having been no less shitty than the thousands before or that nothing substantial had happened, something foreign grabbed a hold of him and made him look up from his datapad. Just one glance, it couldn't hurt. So, in an act that broke the form of the last couple years, he took a look. _

_Strange. It wasn't often that they got people from the Irken Empire. _

_In fact, he couldn't remember having ever seen an Irken in person. He delayed his own unsealing so he could get a better look at (apparently) "her." She had a peaceful face- but then again, who _didn't_ when in stasis- but he could just tell that it was very rare that it looked this way, even when this girl was up an about in her prime. There was an unshakable stiffness to her features, a discipline that radiated in an odd way. There was no denying it: This little lady had been a fighter wherever in the Irken dominion she hailed from._

_Oddities aside, he wasn't paid to gawk at the meat, and he was about to move her along with the others when an alert blinked on his datapad. _

_The Irken had been strange; What was stranger was that she was to be brought before the boys upstairs. Very odd, indeed..._

_However, he still had a job to do. He typed back an acknowledgment and unsealed the pod._

_The typical bluish aura of de-condensed chemicals and moisture breathed forth and revealed the full form of the decidedly young Irken woman. From what he knew from the vids, she was still in her standard dress. He wondered where it was that their boys found her- or _got_ her._

_Then, gravity did its job. The Irken began to tip forward and Krolik caught her. He steadily lowered her down- but not in a way anyone would call "gentle"- and removed a syringe from his belt. He injected it directly into her right breastplate. Within five seconds, her large, dark eyes shot open and she was hacking and gasping and jerking just like the rest of the hold. Krolik held her to keep her from injuring herself. _

_He did not envy the sleepers when they woke. Not only did they have this shithole to wake up to, they had to deal with the surreal, adverse affects of being in cryo for extended periods of time. The organs go into their own little fit as they spasm in a jump-started attempt to get up and running again, resulting in painful headaches, intense nausea and a kind of disorientation Krolik could only imagine. Needless to say, this girl heaved a _lot_ in the first couple seconds of being thawed out, vomiting twice all over her uniform and the floor. "Just another job for the trainees..." Krolik thought._

_But aside from the incredibly uncomfortable state your body was in on the _inside_, the outside was the _real_ kicker. Most- in not all- of their incoming sleepers were nearly nude for this very reason: Wearing any sort of clothing over your bare body would irritate the skin in such a way that, upon waking, it would be like experiencing one of the most excruciating burns ever. The flesh would sizzle and scab over considering the skin tissue was still adjusting to the new outside conditions, and because of the differences in the covered sections of flesh; it was like being freezer burned, honestly. Krolik had forgotten to remove a bandage the first time he'd experienced cryosleep and had proceeded to wrap that very same section for a week after waking. But this poor girl had been clad _head_ to _toe_...yeesh._

_Krolik braced himself for the screaming. It was delayed, like most intense pain, but it caught up. Soon, her eyes went wide once again and she began to let out a bloodcurdling cry, tears welling up in her eyes- tears that were equally irritated and infected- which was cut short by another session of nasty dry heaves. Krolik gave her a few moments which she spent howling in pain before he hefted her to her feet and began to lead her away from the loading area, but not to the same corridor as the rest of the meat. No, he'd been given a new set of orders, and he did as he was told. That's how he'd made it these past twenty years. _

_The girl never really stopped screaming, though. She kept unknowingly leaning on him just so she could walk, making her way down the bright hall with all the grace of a drunken cripple, not yet in her right mind. He almost felt _bad_ for her as she sobbed and screamed, seized and writhed; they hadn't even gotten to the part where screaming was not only appropriate, but _expected_. _

* * *

The Bureau was in the business of being "in the know." They dealt in information, a field that has no rules, boundaries or etiquette. A certain level of outside cynicism came with the territory. They always had some prepared line or anecdote to justify their existence or usher away any scrutiny; "We keep track of it so you don't have to" or "The stuff that isn't worth your time is worth ours" or his _personal_ favorite (_snark snark_): "There are lots of weight-bearing factors that never see the light of day, let alone your desk. What you don't see, _we_ see. Our job is to make sure no one else has to." _Pfft_- dressed up words for skirting questions and discouraging the curious.

Tallest Red didn't like working with the spooks. Dealing with them was like talking to a wall, or Purple when he was intoxicated. He didn't like being out of the cut, which is why he made it a point not to get involved with any internal affairs- just let the underlings handle the paperwork. But with the BIA, it was different; they _demanded_ that he get involved- _make_ him know things- only so they could essentially tell him he wasn't supposed to know and that he should "Do his part while they do their's." It was like having a delicious treat teased in front of you on a stick, and then being scolded when you tried to run after it.

But despite this, he was even more enraged by the fact that he really couldn't find a legitimate reason to dislike them. Sure, he had his pet peeves about being shut out of certain parts of his own government, but if he took action against every person they had on payroll whom he didn't like, the ship would be nearly empty and Purple's ration stockpile would mysteriously start getting smaller and smaller. But dreams are just dreams. The Bureau never slipped up and created extra work for them, they hardly ever troubled them outside of the aforementioned duties and they didn't even ask for exchange gifts come the yearly Conquest Gala. They existed only on memos and mailing lists, so it seemed.

Or, so he _wished._ Every once in a while, the formula changed up a bit. Sometimes, Red and Purple _did_ find it necessary to work with a BIA analyst in person, and _that's_ when things got uncomfortable. Their people were...off. Along with the fact that they represented an organization that made it a point not to do anything face-to-face- thus making any personal contact inherently weird- there something else about them. There was collected, stoic, robotic, and then there were _these_ guys. He had no words to describe them, other than "cold." All he could say with 100% certainty was that they indeed lived up to their moniker "spook."

* * *

_The lone Irken woman was alone now. She was in a painfully bright room, leaning against a sickly yellow metal wall at her back, trying to caress her bloodlessly mutilated body. She didn't know where she was. She didn't know where she'd been. She didn't know her name. She just wanted to lie down, to go back into the sleep she'd been in before this nightmare started._

_Suddenly, a mechanical noise grabbed her fuzzy attention, and a small needle descended form the ceiling on a robot rig. It quickly dialed at her face and, before she could do anything, it sprayed her in the face with a foul-smelling yellow powder. It got in her nose, in her mouth, in her eyes. Her whole body recoiled like she'd been struck in the face. She hadn't the strength to bring her arms up to rub it away, so she just slumped back against the wall, head limply looking up with her face an unpresentable mess of dried vomit, chemical runoff, scabbing skin and now this malicious dust. If only the Tallest could see her n-_

_Wait. The Tallest. Irk. _

_She found that, upon trying, she could remember everything, everything until the last several days. Whatever had been in that powder must have acted like adrenalin._

_And right when her world was beginning to piece back together, something else tore it back down when a disembodied voice sounded form behind the one-way glass before her._

* * *

Normally he would just shake his head and prepare some wordy speech for them about efficiency and how they personified it, how they'd done everything to the letter and had no reason to think any possible foul-up was their fault. Only, that's what he would say if this were a normal meeting. Today, he and Purple were going before a tribunal alongside these creeps.

So, in short, he was anxious. Hopefully, Purple felt just as uneasy as him. There was sense of stability in sharing fear.

* * *

"_State your name, rank and allegiance." the glass ordered._

* * *

The lift ascended steadily, a soft hum announcing it, and after sixty levels, it stopped. The door slid open and he was joined unceremoniously by his colleague. He looked flustered.

"Good day," Red greeted, half-meaning it.

"Yeah, and what's so 'good' about it?" Purple shot back, obviously much more expressive with his distaste. Also, he wasn't one outwardly show anger, either. "I was all ready for a nice, relaxing day of watching the glassing of Marflar and now I'm _this close_ to getting booted and spaced! I've been eating non-stop all morning and I don't feel any better!"

Great. Panic. Just what he needed. "Just stay back and let me do the talking. And if they call on you for some reason, just tell them what they want to hear."

Purple calmed down, but only a bit, "Do you...have any idea what this might be about?"

"The folder was eyes-only- So nothing good, I'll tell you that much." Red told him, keeping his eyes forward.

"So...what, then?" Purple persisted.

"I feel like knowing won't help you any." Red said with a demeaning tone, "Like I said, _I'll_ talk. You just...I don't know, try to be cool. Act like you've done this before."

Purple frowned at him and looked back at the lift doors, mumbling something about "Don't tell me to 'be cool,' I _invented_ being cool..." Red just ignored him and kept thinking of how he was going to let this play out.

This was a slap in the face, as far as he was concerned. He shouldn't have to be nervous in his _own temple._ If anything, _they_ should have been fearing _his_ arrival! He'd made up his mind: He would answer all of their questions, yes, but the second one of their zombie lackeys stepped even _remotely_ out of line, he was done. He'd pull rank and make his leave, plain and simple.

"I still don't think it's smart to go in there blind." Purple spoke up again.

"That's not what you were saying the last several times we had to make an appearance here." Red stated. Though Purple had a point, he didn't feel like admitting it outwardly. He knew how to deal with things and he would be the one doing the dealing.

"Oh, this is totally different and you know it," Purple countered, "This is the BIAL, man! An organization that actually _is_ as nasty as it's acronym sounds! These people don't do a lot, but the little they do, they are_ damn good_ at, and of the few things they're good at, information is their niche. How am I supposed to hold my own in there without any _information_, Red?"

"You do what you always do when you don't know what to say: You shut up." Red said harshly.

"I seem to recall a _certain someone_ 'saying that knowledge is power?'"

"And _now_ I'm saying 'ignorance is bliss.' And besides," Red turned to look at his friend, "Say- and this is entirely hypothetical- that we _are_ in trouble right now, and we're being brought before this tribunal to be court martialed," Purple's face dropped as Red continued, "Not only would that be a pretty big issue for us to deal with, it would be even worse if we both had to go down because of it. I want someone to have deniability. If anyone should take the hit, it should be me; I'm the one who was stupid enough to get involved with the Bureau in the first place."

Purple made a pouting face and crossed his arms, "You _say_ that, but all I hear is 'I want all the credit for myself if I'm wrong.'"

"Oh, well, if that's how you really feel about it, feel free to take my place in the hot seat."

Purple's mouth hung while he thought of something to say. He ultimately failed, "Fine. Whatever, do your thing. But you're buying lunch."

After a pause, they both just started laughing at the idea of paying for food. _"Finally, I bright patch."_

Their merrymaking subsided as the ominous floor number they were expecting began to loom. They both took a moment to compose themselves, internally and externally. Red brushed some crumbs off of his shoulder plate; had to look good for the creeps.

They were ten floors away and rising fast. Purple spoke one last time.

"But in all seriousness, do you really know what's going on?"

* * *

_She had few options other than to comply. They had her figuratively naked, here. She cleared her throat and answered in a pathetic, uncharacteristic voice, "T-Tak, j..." she chose her words carefully, "...janitorial drone, Irken...E-Empire..." After that, she started coughing again. She tasted blood in it._

"_Repeat?" the glass asked, the voice behind it obviously having trouble discerning her slurred words. She did her best to stand straight and she mustered the strongest tone she could._

"_Tak, of the Irken Empire."_

* * *

Red's eyes glazed for only a moment before he unclenched his jaw and answered:

"I have a pretty good idea."

* * *

It went without saying that it was dark in this room. Anything else would have been out of character. The light that was present came in the form of personal desk bulbs that gave away just the slightest outlines and features of the board of analysts sitting in an elevated semi-circle around the solitary circular platform that Red and Purple curtly stepped out onto, Purple a bit more stiff in his movements than his counterpart.

Red didn't waste time taking in his surroundings. He'd been in military courts before and this one was no different in terms of appearance. He just kept a straight face and approached the control panel, tapping a command into the touch screen and causing their panel to rise up to become level with their peers. _"No going back now..."_

His apprehensiveness lacked any reason. For everyone, there is an inherent discomfort to being put under a microscope, as enough scrutiny can allow one to find fault with nearly anything. But for Red, he honestly couldn't think of a reason to do anything other than speak the truth and nothing but. He hadn't gone behind anyone's back without covering it up an he couldn't remember the last time he'd broken protocol. This was just basic paranoia, he guessed. For someone who had nearly everything handed to him his whole life, he could honestly say that this feeling was both new and unwelcome. _"So this is what our underlings have felt like all this time,"_ he thought.

Red heard the lilting, collected voice of a control brain somewhere in the inky darkness. Strange, he didn't expect that they'd have a presence here. In a way, he found it reassuring that something still existed which knew more than the Bureau. For now.

The dim, pinkish glow of the synthetic mind slowly glinted active to Red's left, the panels lighting up with each word. Every sentence sounded scripted, unnatural and isolated, the tone flat and disinterested.

"This hearing is now in session. Know that no one is accusing or being accused; this is merely a congregation on an urgent matter. Those with talking points must make a motion to speak. Any and all questions must be answered truthfully by both parties. Do those who stand before the receiving party have any queries before this hearing proceeds?"

He jumped at the chance for some breathing room. There were a whole slew of things he'd like to ask, like "Why couldn't this wait until Marflar was destroyed" or "Why is there a Control Brain present" or even "Why do you guys even _exist_ if you need us to give you information?"

Red cleared his throat, realizing that the slightest hitch in his speech patterns or misplaced word choice could mark the start of a downward spiral, "Yes, I would like an explanation as to why I'm here in the first place." He tried to sound civil, but that would have sounded combative in any language.

"_Ball's in your court, creeps,"_ he thought to himself. This was good; now, maybe he'd have something to built a basis on- Or an alibi, should the situation warrant, and he _sincerely_ hoped it didn't. He wasn't looking forward to lying to the only two entities that knew more than he did about...everything.

The control brain started to answer before he heard a new voice interrupt it. Red couldn't tell who it belonged to and had no way of pinpointing it's source. It would be like talking to a wall, just like he'd anticipated. He could understand their logic here, explaining the dark room: No way of analyzing someone's tell, or playing favorites with the speakers or even sending a mixed signal. He'd just have to speak and they'd be the judge of what he said.

The new voice was overtly calm, smooth but vaguely hostile, just like they always were, like they were politely telling him to butt out of their business and get lost.

"You are here, our Tallests, because your input is needed on a matter we recently reopened- but _had_ closed- several years ago. In short, we will ask questions, and you will provide answers. _My Tallest._"

He hated when they used that nomenclature. Their tone was regulation crisp, like they only referred to them by rank because they were required to. Who were they trying to fool? Addressing rank was a way of showing respect- _they_ were doing it because it said to do so on paper. Honestly, an _order_ followed by a _salute?_ The only words they said that ever meant something to Red or Purple were hollow and frivolous.

But needless to say, he'd have to play along; they'd mentioned a cold file and that genuinely intrigued him. Although, he'd find _anything_ intriguing in this damned dungeon.

Red stuttered at first, but recovered, "...Regarding?"

After that there was an uneasy silence. He could hear a handful of hushed echoes before the telltale sound of a datapad caught his attention. What, did they think he was just going to answer blindly? No, he wanted to know what he was talking about before he actually spoke! Now he had to wait in the dark while they whispered in each other's ears. By _Irk_, he hated this alienation.

"This was a multi-theater incident," the analyst suddenly continued, lightly startling Red, "with several other implications with required actions that exceed our jurisdiction, but only one of which we'll cover- today, anyways."

"What does that mean?" Purple asked out of the blue, raising his hand as if he were still a trainee in preliminary classes. Red looked over his shoulder and gave him a look that lowered his hand and his head. But the BIA voice answered anyway, "It means we're not the only branch who would find this case interesting." _"Oh, so it's a 'case,' now?"_

Red didn't know how he felt about those words, but he knew it wasn't "relieved." If this guy had a point, he wished he'd make it.

"Before we go any further, the facts: Fifty years ago, the Irken training planet Devastis was the site of a domestic act of terrorism, resulting in nearly 50% of the planet's power grid to be knocked out. Devastis, being a burgeoning Irken colony as well as a training ground, was, needless to say, very reliant on energy, making an attack such as this one catastrophic."

Red hummed in agreement, aware of his own personal stake in the "accident" on Devastis. He knew that the cretin behind the whole thing didn't deserve to be called a terrorist. At least terrorists had the good sense to blow _themselves_ up, too. Red let the analyst go on.

"Of the many unorthodox and protocol-defying emergency scenarios that took place immediately afterwards, the one that has the floor today involves a lone Irken trainee being sealed inside one of the testing chambers. The blackout essentially locked the entrance form the outside, leaving the simulation to go on undeterred. Needless to say, she was in a bad way.

Red's antenna perked up, "I-I'm sorry; '_she?_'"

"An Irken called 'Tak,'" the analyst said nonchalantly, ignorant to the weight that the name carried.

Red gulped.

Tak.

He didn't need to be told of Invader Tak, for she was just a few notches of apathy down from the _other_ Irken would plagued him so. This was the _principle_ reason why he didn't like the BIA: They always dug up the worst of what had been buried.

This wasn't to say that Tak was a living nightmare. This was to say that she _could_ be. The extent of Red's interaction with her was limited to the single time she had contacted them on the bridge of the Massive, describing some grandiose plan to...hollow out the Earth, or something. He had no way of knowing if such a plan could- or _did_- come to fruition, but that had been the first and last he'd seen of Tak.

That wasn't why the idea of her made him uneasy. He had iced her file because of what he saw in her. She wasn't just an ambitious Irken with a penchant for losing self-control, or even just a little bit crazy- she had a drive in her that told him that she would lay utter waste to any obstacle that stood in her way. She was dangerous.

And they had left her out in the woods.

They'd cut her leash and released her in the wild. They'd inadvertently stranded her in uncharted space. He had no way of knowing if she was still bombing around the galaxy taking names or if she was even still breathing. All he knew is that if she was- and she wasn't _already_ on a blood vendetta against the Tallest- she would find out sooner or later. And _then_ they'd be in for it.

"My Tallest, you are familiar with Invader Tak?" the Bureau asked him, seeing his face glaze over as he thought.

"Uh, yeah, I've dealt with her before. What does she have to do with Devastis?"

The analyst went on, "The 'malfunction' on Devastis lead to Tak involuntarily failing her Trial, and she was slated for janitorial duty. Fifty years later, the mining planet Dirt went dark, the very same planet where she was stationed. Upon inspection, intelligence suggests an attack of some kind, but there was no sign of tampered or stolen data or even any casualties. But, one of their communication arrays was sabotaged and a single personal cruiser was missing from the main hanger. As you might have guessed, Tak was nowhere to be found."

A different voice chimed in, "That's where you come in, my Tallest."

The first voice asked "Were you made aware of Tak's whereabouts at any point during proceeding month?"

Red saw no immediate harm in telling the truth, "Yes, yes I was. Tak contacted me and my associate. She said she was on Earth."

There was a pause. Then, "Did she tell you her motives?"

Before he could answer, the second voice cut in, "Before you answer, let me ask: Wasn't Zim- for lack of a better word- _exiled_ to Earth that very same year?"

"...Yes, he was."

Voice #2 gave the invisible nod to his colleague, asking him to continue.

"In any case," he started again, "You were both given the location of a rogue agent, already guilty of several intergalactic felonies, and you took no action?"

Now _that_ sounded accusatory. Red was about to say something back when that second voice did it for him, "This isn't an interrogation. Whether they knew or not, it would have been irrelevant. Irk had no forces in that system at the time and Tak was already AWOL. Nothing they said or did would have changed that." It changed it's inflection to be directed at Red again, "All they can do now is tell us their side of the story."

The first voice said begrudgingly "What details did Tak relay to you?"

Red tried his best to remember.

"She sent word of an unsanctioned act against Earth; something about hollowing it out and offering it to Purple and myself as a...gift, I suppose. As silly as it sounds, she almost did it." Red relayed.

"Almost?"

Red sighed, "Our golden boy, Zim? He stopped her, aided by human comrades. Tak's plan never saw completion, as far as I know. After that, you know as much as we do. Tak simply disappeared."

The second voice again; "Yes, but if only that were true."

Red's curiosity was caught again. That curiosity was quickly trumped by worry.

"Wait...do you mean that she's resurfaced?" Red asked, trying to sound indifferent.

The second voice took the reins, "Tak's modified spittle runner must have been in range of a com buoy, because her signature was picked up by another party. For now, she is being held indefinitely without council. That's why we're all here today."

Red was cautious, now. "And...why is that?"

"Because you're going to decide her fate." he answered casually, "We don't make decisions, my Tallest, we just keep the books. As it stands, at least on paper, Tak is a rogue agent- a _war criminal_ if you're feeling poetic- and she is guilty of crimes not only against a neutral power but to her own."

Red was still lost. What was this guy asking here? Sure, if Red had the chance to rebury this problem, he'd take it if only to keep his own hide safe, but...is that really the issue here? Did they call him here just to tie a noose?

* * *

_Tak had no idea what was about to happen next. Despite having her memory jogged in such crude fashion, she was still lost as to where she was. _

_She racked her brain for answers. All she remembered in the last 48 hours was pain and the sounds of complex machinery. Looking around, all she could see was this pale room and the smooth walls around her. Her instincts and extensive training were lost here. She couldn't even see a door anywhere._

_She turned, inspecting the only part of the room she hadn't seen yet._

_What she saw looked almost like...units of vertical measurement._

* * *

"Please reiterate." Red requested.

"Of course." #2 agreed, "I asked you what you wanted to do with Invader Tak. Do you want to bring her in, or leave her out to dry?"

That sounded cold, even for them. But still, they were talking about erasing a serious (potential) problem with on effort on his part. Whoever this "other party" was, they already had Tak well in tow; apparently they just wanted to know if they wanted her shackles, too.

Things were starting to look up. If Red wasn't so strict with appearances, he'd be flashing an evil smile and rubbing his claws together just for the sake of brevity.

Red looked around, and then at Purple, who to ask a question since this whole topic was brought up, but Red kept dodging it.

Purple asked, "...W-Where is Tak now?"

* * *

_Out of nowhere, as if to continue the tortuous hell the day had devolved into, both of the walls began to crack. No, not crack...they were frizzling, both the left and right sides of the room starting to blur into walls of static. _

_Panic set in, something she almost never felt. What in Irk's name was happening her? _

_She got her answer, in the form of a pinpointed stabbing pain in her neck. Her gloved hand shot to find the source and suddenly probed a small, metallic and circular object at the base of her throat. Then, it buzzed._

_Tak lost all muscle control and collapsed, twitching as she felt something akin to electricity course through her. Once again, she was rendered a seizing mess on the floor, undignified and helpless- Only this time, she was fully aware of it._

_She heard the sounds of movement; crisp voices, tapping of boots, the rough beeps and clicks of military-grade tech, tech that she recognized. _

_Two hands grabbed her shoulders and hefted her up. She tried to brush one off, but was met with second round of shock, her teeth grinding together as she fought back the urge to cry out again._

* * *

"The independent criminal detention station Eridanus IV. As it stands, we have conclusive evidence to plant her for life." came the Purple's answer. The analyst paused, letting them breath it in, then asked "Do you want to?"

* * *

"_Tak, you are being formally charged with multiple unsanctioned acts of terrorism as well as treason against your own empire. You are hereby sentenced to life aboard this prison vessel."_

_What? _

_What!?_

_The Irken soldier babbled an incoherent and feverish string of pleading words as she was harshly hauled away by the so-called guards. She thrashed. She screamed. She struggled with all her might, and each time she was zapped throughout her whole body. _

_It became so frequent that she began to lose consciousness. The world around her descended into a bleak haze of screams, but not her own. All around her were the alien cries of thousands and thousands of what were now the only thing she could call "kinsmen." _

_She didn't know what to think. She didn't know what she could ever hope to do._

_All she could do was fight until she couldn't move her limbs, and the electricity would see to that. All she could do was try everything in her power to ignore the sinister voice in her head that was urging her to forget her old life, to give up on all that she knew and loved, to erase all that made her what she was. But above all else, it shouted one thing loud and clear:_

_She was one of them now._

* * *

Red looked at Purple and Purple looked at Red. Red's eyes narrowed and harbored a harsh fire.

"Do it."

* * *

_She was drowning. _

_After a while, she shut down. The last thing she would feel before falling into a deep state of traumatic hibernation would be the cold, hard floor of the cell that she now had to call what she had once called her beloved Irk: "Home."_


	3. Chapter 3

A pair of the most vivid lavender eyes pried themselves open. They swiveled around in their sockets, seeing but not seeing. They were in darkness- _She_ was in darkness; blind, but not lost. Somehow, this feeling wasn't unfamiliar but she could hardly recall with any certainty why she thought so. There was no reason to think any of her current intuitions were genuine, but perhaps that was due to the fact that she couldn't remember anything of where she was.

She couldn't remember her name.

The alien plain around her took the backseat of her concerns upon this realization. Her eyes glazed over in thought. _A name_; something so rudimentary and basic, so instinctual and second-nature that the thought of drawing a blank on it was not only unimaginable but lacking of any kind of recourse. She just felt this void in her conscience, like trying to remember something so long ago that no amount of strain would fool anyone but herself- If she was even _capable_ of fooling herself. She tried to dig, thinking the word "Name" in a continuous mental slur. All she received was this sense of weariness and bewilderment.

She tried "My name," but little changed. In fact, that might have made things worse. Putting herself in the equation only added another foreign feeling to the mix. Her fragmented mind would have struggled to place a face to this sensation had it not simply hit her with a seamlessness that she wished had been present as she tried to remember who she was, and filled her with a strange kind of... What had the word been? Her mind was more than happy to oblige, pumping out her answer for a second time:

Loss.

She closed her eyes.

No name.

There was a baser horror to not knowing anything for certain. She found it impossible to feel any sort of solace in this situation because she couldn't remember what such a thing even felt like. She had nothing to compare any of this to. With every passing second that she thought on it she could feel the pit in her gut widening and her panic growing harder and harder to keep at bay.

Despite the fact that she was lying down on something sturdy and solid, she felt like she was falling. Any sense of stability she had before- regardless of what she did or didn't remember- was starting to crumble. Whole other realms of terrifying possibilities began to overlap into her mind, all of them vague but all of them clearly spelling ill-will towards her. She tried to remain level-headed, but some nihilistic part of her just kept repeating "So this is what a corpse feels like." What was she without a memory, purpose or even a damned name?

She still felt loss, but now she was coming down with other things; she felt unfocused regret. She felt unreasonable fear. She felt overwhelming anxiety. But above all, she felt so terribly alone.

That is, until a sound reverberated through whatever sliver of the world she was currently existing on, and barely, at that- How could one exist without knowledge of what such a concept was? Regardless, she had definitely heard something, and suddenly she felt herself thinking things without trying to, like she'd been possessed by some ethereal instinct. "Sound" no longer felt correct to her, just then; such a term was too generalized, too much of a catch-all to accurately describe what she'd detected, let alone explain why she was reacting in such a way. "Noise" didn't work either- What she'd heard was much too conformed and structured too logically to be a "noise."

She felt a pang of strained ache in her skull.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands- or _claws_, as she discovered- came up to clutch her tempos, halting the incredibly aggressive analysis that had overtaken her former curiosity. None of this made any sense. Why was she thinking this way, so _calculating_ and _exact_, when just moments ago she had barely qualified as sentient? To her, at this moment, her thoughts didn't sound like her own. They were cold and defined. They felt sinister. They felt conspiratory. Suddenly, she wasn't morning what her mind had become- She was very nearly cowering in fear of it. If this is how she acted when a pin dropped somewhere, what else was she prone to?

What did she care if she heard a noise, or sound, or whatever her instincts dubbed it? Why would such a harmless thing spark such defensive poise in her? Wanting to find out what exactly had caused all this, she slowly sat up in what was apparently a bed of sorts. There was no _bedding_, though, just a mattress topped with a thin pillow she'd unknowingly been resting her addled head on. One hand hesitantly probed to her right and she was greeted with the cold, rough texture of a wall. She ran her claws down it, finding no seams or divots. She let it be and then looked around her little world. To her amazement, the shadows suddenly bled away as if on command, leaving her in what appeared to be a small room, 30-square feet by her measure, another analysis that came eerily simple to her.

She felt relieved in a way that still did little to raise her spirits. She still had no idea what was going on, and she knew that being able to see clearly was just another factor that did nothing to bring he closer to an explanation. For the most part, she understood the surface aspects of what she did; it was obvious that the shadows hadn't literally disappeared, but rather, her _own_ eyes had made it appear so- She didn't need her full cognitive ability or proper memory to figure that one out. How she'd managed it, she could only speculate, and since that had gone _so well_ earlier, she decided not to read into it just yet. For now, she had her primary concern.

What she had deduced to be a voice had called out to her just a moment ago.

Her critical thinking began to evolve before her subconscious, morphing steadily into what most would call "defensive mode." All five of her senses began to elevate in sensitivity. Suddenly, her curled antenna atop her scalp could acutely sense the sour grime of the strange compound that made up her little cell, the vague, salty hint of sweat that still clung to the walls and the light sting of the unwashed floors. Her hearing could now detect the most subtle, telltale signs of a heartbeat somewhere nearby. It was steady, obviously unthreatened by her, and the pattern of the beat lead her to believe whoever it belonged to was in a similar pose as her.

She was being watched, and such a conclusion prompted her to compensate for any weakness she may have shown earlier. With a start, she felt anger growing within her; she didn't like being spied on.

She began to think critically. Despite everything her instincts were telling her, anyone could have known how compromised she currently was. If she was to make a move, it would have to be swift, clever and completely unpredictable. Scenarios began to course through her, several being shot down, revised and ultimately decided upon. She was about to spring into action when she hit another metaphorical wall: The voice addressed her again.

Every assumption she made just seconds earlier was disproved on behalf of the words she was able to make out: "If someone else is there, _say somethin'_, would ya?"

The situation changed. She obviously wasn't being threatened, and if his entity had been able to accost her, it would have done so already. Still, she had to be careful- She was in alien territory.

She turned and was met with a wall identical to the other three, to no one's surprise. She saw no seams, no breaches or slits. It was just a solid barrier.

But still, the voice reported, "Come on, am I talking to myself, here? I do enough of that already."

It was then that she learned something else about the voice that was out of the ordinary. It wasn't coming from behind the wall- It was in her _head._ The sound was omnipresent and unfiltered, devoid of any influence form the world around her. No echo, no distortion. Such factors would have definitely come into play in a place like this, yet here she was, being spoken to clear as day.

But despite being technically alone, she had little choice than to say something back. She opened her mouth to speak, but hesitated; this was asinine! Since when did she talk to herself? Obviously, she had no way of knowing what she did or didn't do in her past life, but she tried to have faith in herself and invest in the thought that schizophrenia wasn't part of it. Or maybe it was. Of course, she'd never heard voices in her head until now, but if such were to happen, it was common knowledge not to indulge said voices. And you _definitely_ weren't supposed to talk to them.

"I..." she started, her own voice sounding strange to her; it was rough but overtly formal. She pushed those thoughts out of the way and committed to this little venture.

"I'm talking to myself, aren't I?" she stated. To say she "asked" would have been incorrect; there was no one here to ask.

The ensuing pause, despite occurring between two entities that had yet to directly acknowledge the presence or legitimacy of one another- or even _see_ each other- was still quite awkward.

She was about to give up when the voice came through again, answering her with "No, you are not." It seemed eager to continue, despite her numerous questions, "And might I say, you are a sight for sore eyes...so to speak."

"How humorous," she grumbled. She was in no mood to joke around. All she wanted to do was get her bearings an figured out if she would be sticking around or breaking out.

"Music to my ears, maybe? That makes much more sense. But I'll tell you what _doesn't_ make sense- waking up with voices in your head but no memory in a room with no door." the voice said.

She hummed absentmindedly in agreement when she realized that there was, in fact, no door to this place. How she'd missed that detail she'd never know, but then again, there were a lot of things she didn't know.

Despite the voice coming from nowhere around her, she continued to look at the wall as the voice spoke again, "I'm sure you have questions- They _always_ have questions."

"Where am I?" the alien girl urged, sounding a bit too desperate for her taste. Her desire to know _something_ was starting to show through.

She thought she heard the voice sigh. "I won't waste your time with all that 'do you really want to know' garbage. The answer to that question's more obvious than the answer to _this_ one..." it told her, and she listened closely: "Do you know how much trouble you're in?"

The words hit her hard. The danger she'd only speculated on before now seemed ever apparent, and she could feel the anxiety building in her. Just one more factor to take into consideration, she told herself; she didn't expect this place to be friendly, did she? Either way, she found herself occasionally glancing over her shoulder as the voice continued.

"I didn't expect you to answer," it said, speaking with a veteran tone, which heavily worried her, "I won't waste your time being cryptic, even if you certainly do have time to waste. You, my little friend, are on Eridanus IV."

It went without saying that the name meant nothing to her, but somehow, she felt like the owner of this voice knew that. She blocked out her surroundings for a moment and started thinking.

Despite not remembering her name, she could feel whole other droves of information pooling at her metaphorical fingertips. Upon trying, she found that the word Eridanus was not something any faction would dub a civilized planet, or even a small colony. It was less complacent and too showy to serve as such, she found, and the sur-numeral was too high be be anything other than the modifier of a _vessel_ of sorts.

So if it wasn't marked in civilian standard, what was its purpose? The possibilities started running through her, and the whole time she was trying not think about how it was happening. It unnerved her, these things she knew.

Then something hit her. Something that made _too_ much sense, so much, in fact, that she immediately found herself denying it. _"No; no, that can't be right,"_ she thought en masse. Now, she was doubting and ridiculing the only things she _knew_ that she knew as facts, and facts, by their very nature, weren't selective or consistently pleasing. She refused to entertain such a thought, yet some part of her told her that she had too.

She'd wanted to know, and now she was sure she did. The voice only reinforced her horrific conclusion, "You're on Eridanus IV, the_ independent criminal detention facility._ You're in jail, kiddo."

She was speechless. This wasn't because she had no way of remembering how she ended up here, or how long she'd been incarcerated, or what she had done to warrant it. This was just genuine shock.

Prison.

"I'm sure you're real cracked up about it, but believe you/me, you haven't even seen the best part yet." it said.

She half-ignored him, yelling back "What did I do to get here? _Why_ can't I _remember_ anything!?"

"In reverse order: To make sure you're compliant, and; most likely something bad." the voice answered wearily, like he'd been asked the same question more times than it could count.

She slouched away from the wall, sitting on her bed with her mouth agape. They couldn't do this...whoever "they" were. But at the same time, she had no argument to the contrary. If she had indeed done something so heinous in her past life that it warranted imprisonment, it was lost on her. She could have been an arsonist, or a kidnapper, or a murderer. Somehow, despite what most would think, not knowing was worse than living with the supposed memories. This was because none of it could be absolutely true, either. She could be innocent, a victim of poor investigative deduction or some personal vendetta. She could be fulfilling some long-forgotten enemy's goal, and in the best possibly way.

And if she couldn't remember, she might as well be guilty in "their" eyes.

"Are you also a prisoner here?" she asked slowly.

"I am," it confirmed, "Ten years going on fifty. Doesn't much matter, though; they'll come up with something to keep me here should I live to see the end of my sentence. They always do."

Ten years. That didn't bode well for her at all. Despair played in her eyes. She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, noticing how cold it was in this place. The clothes she wore were thin and poorly insulated, just a simple pair of pants and a short-sleeved top.

On a hunch borne more out of desperation than hope, she asked "Do you know who I am?"

The voice seemed to think it over before answering sympathetically "No, can't say I do."

"Did they erase your memory as well? When you first got here, I mean?" she asked.

"Funny thing about living without long-term memory: You'd have no way of knowing if you ever lost it. Would it be redundant to say I don't _remember_ if they erased it? If you lose your entire past and wake up somewhere completely unfamiliar- nothing around you that could tell you you'd forgotten- you might as well have been borne yesterday." Her face dropped as it continued, "All I can tell you is this place is all I can remember now. Great, ain't it?"

Ten years knowing nothing but the inside of a cell. No childhood. No accomplishments. Nothing to reminisce. What a hollow way to live, day to day in a paradox of assumed guilt and sentence. To be punished for a crime you remember had all the obvious reason and merit. But to be punished for something you don't remember was self-defeating. How could you learn from a mistake that, in your mind, had never been made?

She had no intention of staying here.

She had to get out; that's right, escape prison. A foolish idea even to those with no reason to know why. It was that or she be left to rot in this perpetual state of illusion.

"I know what you're thinking," the voice stated, "You want to bust outa here. While I can both admire and relate to your enthusiasm, let me just say that that's not gonna happen."

She was defensive now, wanting to safeguard the only glimmer of hope she had left, "And why shouldn't it? A prison- ship or otherwise- is still just a compound, a compound with a _layout_, with _flaws._"

"And that _would_ be true, if only this place had any." it countered, "And I'll bet you wanna know how I know that. I've been here ten years, kid, _ten._ Anyone who can say that has either never tried to escape or tried enough times to know how stupid a venture it is."

"Well, I'm not you," she mumbled, scanning the room once more for something- _anything_- that could aid her cause. All she saw was the frame of her bed and the walls. _Dammit. _

"No, you're not me. You're nothing like me." it seemingly consented, "You're _fresh_, you're filled with _fire._ Never mind the odds, right? Those odds never took _you_ into consideration, never considered that you might be _different_ than the droves the came before you, all thinking the same thing- and _failed._ If you haven't done it, it's a record waiting to be broken, yes sir."

"I haven't forgotten how sarcasm works." she said, annoyed.

"Yeah, well, you've certainly forgotten how your reasoning skills work." it prodded. "You look around, if you haven't done that enough already. Do you see any way in or out? If your cell is in _any way_ similar to mine when I first woke up here, then it's not only sealed by means you don't understand but only operable by the goons who run this tub."

She filtered him out; he was weak, just some washed up con who'd lost any and all drive for salvation. He'd been institutionalized, and now he was afraid to leave this place. But still, none of that meant he wasn't right. She cursed internally at the truth in his words. This was a hermetically sealed box, in the most basic sense of the term. She popped off the bed, her knees and muscles weak and shaking. She teetered around, wall to wall, probing the surfaces, looking for any signs of outside influence. She dragged her claws floor to ceiling on every wall and still found nothing. She must have looked like a crazy person, scratching around like a rodent, the similarities numerous and disturbing.

This place defied reason. There was nothing here to be analyzed or broken down. There was nothing to be understood. She was just...trapped.

She backed away and flopped back down on the bed and closed her eyes, letting a sigh that devolved into a whimper halfway through. She regretted it immediately, as this other persona obviously heard it and sensed her brief display of weakness, responding with a less scolding tone, "Take it easy and just relax. In a little while you'll get some fresh air."

Her eyes shot open again. Her posture righted itself faster than it ever could have before, "What do you mean 'fresh air?'" She nearly slurred her words.

"Aw, shi- _Look_, kid, I know exactly what you're thinking, and let me just say: _Don't._"

"No, you said something and you meant it. What did you mean, what's about to happen?" she pried.

She heard it him sigh again. "In just a minute, some of the warden's boys are gonna arrive to take you to see the boss. He likes to greet all his inmates personally."

Opportunity.

She was off the bed once again, poised for a fight that she had no way of knowing how to conduct. She was operating on instinct, now. She was slowly turning, never letting a wall leave her sight for longer than a few seconds. They could literally come from anywhere.

"Damn, you're jacked all of the sudden. What's your plan, you're just gonna 'wrassel' the whole security force and make a break for the hanger?" it asked, sounding both concerned and condescending.

She was going to say something along the lines of "I was thinking about it" just for kicks, but then she actually found herself considering his idea. In all honesty, she was squaring up for their arrival just so she could do _something_ to rebel against whatever the hell was happening with her here. She wasn't about to lay down like a child and just _accept_ this. But now, she was starting to think critically on what the voice had said only as a quip.

Obviously, the voice interpreted her silence and instantly began to fall back on itself, "I wasn't being serious- _Don't do that._"

"And why _shouldn't_ I? It's not like there are many other options." she said, still watching the walls with growing tension.

"I'll _tell_ you why: You get on the system's bad side, you'll never stop regretting it, and they sure as hell won't let you forget it." he warned.

She glared at the wall at the head of her bed, the direction she had been referencing as his own this whole time, despite knowing such couldn't be be entirely true, "I'd rather let them know that I'll go kicking and screaming than quiet and content."

Just then, she sensed an impending presence. Her stance tightened and the voice spoke on.

"So this is about sending a 'message' now? Please; what message are you sending, that they'll need to beat or sedate you until you cooperate? _Nothing good can come of what you're planning to do_, kid."

She said nothing back, as the churning in her gut was overwhelming. The fire she felt just a second ago was starting to asphyxiate, replaced now by realism-fueled worry and a sense of foreboding. She was shaping things up to become rather ugly. The voice had every reason to think it was in the right; this indeed may not have been the best decision- certainly not the one tiered for those with a strong sense of self preservation- but it was the _only_ decision that she felt applied to _her._

She couldn't just stand by. Of the vast number of things that felt wrong in her at this very moment, _that_ was the worst. If she could draw breath, each breath was to be a slight against whatever antagonized her. There _were_ no other options. No matter what was to happen, be it a brutal beating or a grievous wound- Should she emerge as the victor or should she be struck down, maybe never to get back up, she could say she did everything in her power to or to not make it so.

And the time to act on such an ideal was approaching. She could detect several patterns of movement somewhere in the distance of this plain of existence- Footsteps of the formerly-mentioned guards, most likely. It was fuzzy, but she had maybe...a minute until they were upon her.

Then, as she was going back inside herself in preparation for only the personal confrontation in her present memory (it was only fitting that it would result in violence), the voice spoke to her, "You're really gonna go through with this, aren't you?"

Her eyes narrowed, "Yes. I have to try."

She didn't know if this other being understood fully, but anyone could have understood the deadly spark in her, and anyone would interpret it as something not to be interfered with. If this entity was able to communicate with her, she was sure he was able to understand as well. She hoped he did; in a way, she was in debt and owed him her thanks. He had reached out to her when she was at her most desperate, when she had no one else to turn to but herself, and when that had fell flat, he'd been there to help her up.

She wanted him to know.

"Thank you." she said earnestly.

"No, thank _you_," he answered quickly, but in a different way than he had before. Gone was the scolding tone, the warning inflection and the condescending words. Something had changed in him, and it was made quite clear in what way when he said "It's been...well, it's been a hell of a long time since I've talked to someone who still had a damned will to_ live._ If you _really_ wanted to warm my heart you'd back down and wait for the guards, but seeing as how _that's_ not about to happen, here's what I'm gonna do: The wall to your right is where they'll enter."

Her face changed from cold to confused. _"How did he...?"_

Before she could inquire, it went on, "Those walls around you act like solid holograms, if that makes any sense; they allow cleared personnel to 'phase' through them. I'm sure you can sense them coming as well, but I'm also sure it's fuzzy. Right?" His voice was growing urgent.

"Uh, y-yes?" she answered quickly, with an air of uncertainty.

"You got three guys coming, two with firearms, one with a stun baton." he told her, "Don't let that stick touch you or you're gonna go down like a sack of produce. Can you disarm someone?"

"Yes." she answered with more sternness, though she had no way of knowing how- or _why_- she was right in saying so.

"Good, 'cause you're gonna have to if you wanna leave this cell conscious." He paused, then stated "They're twenty meters away."

She pivoted to face the wall they'd be attacking from and got back into the stance her subconscious deemed appropriate. The adrenalin had kicked in now, her antennae twitching as they worked to process the flurry of sensations around her. They twitched as the guards stacked up by the apparent "door."

The voice gave her some last minute details, "They're in formation; gun, stick, gun. You move fast, you might be able to get the jump on'em. Good luck, kid."

"Thank you."

The wall began to distort, the colors and symmetry warping and frizzling, and anticipation started to fry her nerves. Her hands and feet- both of which were bare- were shaking. _"C'mon, where are you?"_ she thought, _"Show yourselves."_

They obliged her in earnest.

Just before she was about to pounce, she heard the voice shout frantically, as if it were right in her ear, "Wait- Drop, _drop!_"

Her body reacted on its own and she got down on all fours, just in time to look up and see a burst of gunfire streak overhead and pepper the wall with several loud _cracks._ No, not gunfire; those weren't traditional rounds, she thought. Looking over her shoulder, she saw four metallic stubs barely larger than her fingertips lodged in the wall behind her, each emitting a futile electric discharge before shorting out in a puff of smoke. They must have been some kind of crowd control munition- She couldn't afford to get tagged.

After their cautionary burst the guards rushed inside, ready to meet a half-conscious inmate seizing on the floor. What they got was something entirely different.

She lost control of her body at that point. She saw something hostile, something that wanted to harm her, and she just...reacted. Lacking the associative memories to put any of her ensuing actions in proportion or perspective, the element of personal touch and scope was gone, replaced now by bare, unrestricted and highly concentrated aggression. It was like she was on autopilot; whenever she'd learned these deadly skills, the persona that had learned them was dormant and now they were running their own show, acting as they were instructed to act.

This wasn't to say the resulting brawl was entirely seamless or one-sided. The apparition-like henchmen she had engaged were also trained to some degree- nothing that held a candle to her own cunning- but it was still a three-on-one melee, and every one of them was at least a foot bigger than she was. There were short instances when she wasn't fortunate enough to be the only one throwing blows and then she'd find it necessary to dodge and parry, and only in those periods did she regain some semblance of control. She would go from drifting in a grunting haze of movement to suddenly waking up right in the face of her opponent, and the first thing she'd see would be whatever limb was bearing down on her. At that moment she would just react again, saving herself, and then it was back into the dark.

She felt the crunch of her knuckles into her opponent's bodies- most of which were armored- and the resulting pain that shot through her wrists and forearms. She felt her bare feet scuffling, dragging and pivoting on the hard floor, winching whenever she felt the harsh sole of a boot come down upon them. She could smell their breath as they exhaled with every strike and impact, could hear them shouting and grunting, and could feel the light spray of blood on her form as each of them took the hits she effortlessly dished out.

It was during this brutal confrontation that she felt more in-tune with who she was than she had since waking up, making this fight the best memory she had right now. Every punch, she felt, brought her closer to something that she didn't quite understand, but strove for nonetheless. It was like serenity.

And then just like that, it was all over. She came to just in time to watch herself parry her final opponent's jab and grab a hold of his arm, spinning around and breaking it over her shoulder, eliciting a short but loud cry from the guard. She hefted him forward, hauling him over her shoulder to slam him flat on his back, still holding his mangled limb, and before she could stop herself she watched as she brought her foot down on his throat. His cries were instantly silenced after a shrill choke and a rough shift beneath the arch of her foot that sent a sick shiver up her spine. She let go of his dead arm and stepped away from the center of the room, wheezing heavily.

She fell back against the wall and looked at what she had done. Before her lay three men, all of them donning identical black & white body armor, none of them drawing a single breath. There was a spatter of dark blood on the mattress and one the wall to her left. Her wide, guilt-ridden eyes drew down to inspect her own hands. All six of her knuckles were coated with blood that wasn't hers but bruises that definitely were. When she rubbed at them she felt no pain in response, which somehow worried her immensely.

Then she saw a drop of deep green liquid appear on her hand, followed quickly by two more. She looked up and felt a steady, warm trickle flow down the right side of her face, starting just above her eye.

"Hey kid? Kid, are you still up?" the voice called out, not knowing if whatever it was talking to was still the same entity it was before, "If you're up, move your ass! The wall's still open but there's more goons on the way! Move,_ move!_"

She stood strait and wiped her fresh wound on the short sleeve of her shirt, which like the rest of her garb, was a dull navy blue. The blood seeped into the fabric and the cut stung.

She saw the rectangular, nature-defying gap in the wall and wasted no time in probing around the guards' bodies. She went to the smallest of the three who had stood around 5'1''- just a few inches taller than she was now at her age- and relieved him of his tactical boots. She had half a mind to say something until she saw his face, and realized it wouldn't have mattered.

She pulled the boots on and was amazed when they actually altered their own shape to correspond to her, matching its shape and size of her feet to fit snuggly around them. She locked the metal buckles tight and then reached for their weapons. The first item she grifted was the stun baton she'd been warned about. Before touching it she stole a pair of their armored gloves and pulled them on, then carefully picked up the bludgeon. It didn't seem to be selective as to who used it and the low hum and occasional static sizzle still resonated from it. She grabbed one of their firearms- something alien to her but akin to a submachine gun- and slung it over her shoulder, tightening the strap so it was secured to her.

The voice could tell she hadn't left yet, "Did you not hear me? Get the hell _out_ of there!"

"I'm going! Can you lead me to the hanger from where you are?" she asked as she pressed herself against the side of the door, peering out into unknown territory. She knew this "hanger" was just a vague concept in her mind, but it was all the goal she needed right now.

"The farther you get from your cell, the less I'll be able to communicate with you. You'll have to make it up as you go along." it said with distaste.

"You want me to charge out there without a plan?" she asked breathlessly, noticing how winded that fight had left her. She must have taken a chance blow to the gut.

"Oh, _now_ you're gonna make that your concern? That didn't stop you just a second ago! Just go; any chance you have out there's better than what you got in here at this point!" he urged her.

She had one last question before she committed to this.

She calmed herself and asked "How is it that you're even talking to me?"

"Girl, if you get out of here," he said, "it won't matter."

* * *

She left the cell in a crazed hurry and stormed out into the new world with the utmost urgency. She was prepped, pumped and ready for anything. Despite all of this, she still froze when she took a look around her.

Certainty had been a major issue as of late, and most of that issue revolved around not knowing anything for sure- She was entirely certain that, despite not remembering anything, nothing she had ever seen in the years she'd been alive had come even close to what she was seeing now. Gone was the quiet, dead air of her cell and the minimalist atmosphere that accompanied it. Gone were the drab colors and the choking shadows. The gray darkness had been replaced by overlapping variations of pink and piercing blue lights that shined and reflected around the world like miniature solar flares, and the uneasy calm of earlier was trumped by the hustle and bustle of an industry in its most sinister prime; _everything_ was moving and _all_ of it had some purpose.

The walkway she'd ran out on was one of _millions_, it seemed, droves of platforms continuing vertically into infinity. She had no way of knowing how far up they'd go because the light was nearly blinding the higher she looked. Just across from her was another tower of the lips of metal and entrances to the other millions of detention cells, though she saw no doors, just smooth, plain pink walls.

The whole place came at her in a painful blur- Too many colors, too much noise, too much happening all at once. She felt like a dwarf star at the center of a universe of chaos. She actually felt herself being pushed back from the waist-level glass safety wall that kept people just as disoriented as her from plummeting thousands of stories to death.

"Kid, you gotta find a way off that level or you're gonna get cornered." the voice instructed her, the clear, lilting quality of earlier starting fade as her distance the cell grew. It was almost like static interference, but in her head, with the sounds and sensations of the world around her taking the place of white noise. She knew that soon she'd be on her own again, left to fend for herself with these phantom abilities.

She willed herself to open her eyes; she needed to be alert. After blinking several times, her eyes readjusted and she approached the rail, looking over and down. Bellow she saw the same sight, no visible bottom in the sea of lights. She could waste no more time taking in her surroundings; she was already well-within the folds of the security force's response time. She had to move.

She heard new voices, not disembodied and friendly but gruff and cold. She whipped her head to the left to see a group of guards advancing towards her, several totting weapons identical to the one she'd snatched up. There'd be no going that way; she hadn't the ammunition to pick them all off, and she had no way to know if these shock rounds were even effective against their armor. From what she could tell, they were for deterring unruly malcontents like herself, not holding one's own in a firefight.

She spun and saw another squad, similarly armed and equally determined to put her down. Obviously there was no going back the way she came. She was boxed in.

"There she is, take her down!" one of them shouted.

At that moment, something lit up in her brain. Instead of charging at her attackers in a futile attempt to resist, she ducked back inside her cell. She knew these guards must have had some kind of master key that allowed them to enter her room and now she was searching for that very piece of technology. She hadn't the slightest idea of what it could look like, though; what looked like an interface module to her could very be a grenade to them.

"I know what you're looking for," the voice interjected, detecting her movements when she reentered his realm of influence, "They use datapads to get in, like hand-held computers. Look for something that resembles a screen."

"Got it." she affirmed.

"And for the love of space, hop to it." he added.

Eventually, she found something. It was a thin piece of liquid crystal framed in alien metal. She tapped her finger against it and it lit up in response- Touch screen.

"You got it? Good, seal that door to your cell now!"

Whatever function had been used earlier was still open and she saw a bird's eye diagram of the cell she was in now. One of the walls on this diagram was red while the other three were blue. She tapped the lit panel in an attempt to reseal the room but nothing happened. _"It must be tiered to authorized personnel,"_ she thought.

She grabbed the hand of the guard she'd taken it from and pressed his finger to the screen. Just like that, the wall changed back to green on the pad and when she turned around, the threshold was gone.

She had no time to celebrate her moment of astuteness as she was sure they had a datapad just like hers and were already preparing to barge in here. Her eyes went back to the screen and she used the guard's finger to tap the digital wall _opposite_ to the one that had been opened. Sure enough, the wall in front of her began to falter in its ruse as a normal construct and another pristinely symmetrical doorway was carved out.

She was about to leave when she realized that things probably wouldn't look much different on the other side and she'd need to find a way to get off this level. She cupped her chin for just a moment then snapped her fingers.

"Hey, what's your plan, kid? I can tell something's up." the voice asked with genuine concern, but she hadn't the mind to answer.

This "plan" involved abandoning her firearm in favor of scavenging all the shoulder slings that these guards had been using to carry said firearms. She unbuckled hers and that of the other guard and clasped them together, making sure she had given herself as much scope as possible. She grabbed the collar plate of the guard whose finger she'd been commandeering and dragged him out with her- Back out into the fray.

A quick glance around revealed no security_ yet._ She hauled the guard out a good ways before dropping him and pressed the guard's finger to the pad and resealed the cell again. Then she started pressing every icon she could find, hoping to eventually stumble upon the application that would permanently seal the room- should such a function even exist- and she was careful not to reopen any of the walls. After much trial and error, the box on the screen turned completely yellow with a word blinking at the bottom in a language she didn't recognize. She dropped the pad and crushed it under her newly-acquired boot.

The guard wall ahead of her had a metal rail that ran atop it, separated from the plexiglass but only by a few centimeters of space. She slipped her length of straps under and around, tying it off with a knot she didn't remember learning. She gave the line a good tug and, once satisfied with its minimal degree of safety, climbed over the railing.

She tried not to look down. All of her body weight was now bearing down on her while gravity tried to pull her into oblivion. She wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible. She kept a firm grip on the strap and her boots pressed against the wall in front of her as she made her way downward. One cautionary glance between her legs told her that the next level was five meters down. She had three meters of line.

Great. Hopefully, she had a decent grip in her past life. She got as low as should manage, her palms barely brushing off the end of her line. If she'd been simply hanging instead of maintaining a cat-like form against the wall, there would still be a full meter of space between her and the next level. But realizing that this was literally her only option now, she dried her hands off one at a time, took a deep breath and let go.

Those two seconds of free-fall were nothing short of terrifying. So many things could have gone wrong in that minuscule spans of time; her boot could have clipped the railing, breaking her leg and sending her spiraling into the gleaming abyss below. She could have made the grab but hit her head against the rail, knocking her unconscious with similar results. Her hands could have lacked the friction needed to maintain her grip. Or she could have simply missed the rail entirely.

But in the back of her mind, something told her she wouldn't. And, as fate would have it, she didn't.

There was harsh metallic _slap_ as her hands came down hard on the railing and she felt pain burst in her hands as the bones in her palms were struck through her skin, but she held on. She didn't think about how high up she was or what awaited her below or just generally how incredibly dangerous this situation was. All she did was compartmentalize her mind so only the most necessary factors caught her attention. Her boots were unable to stick and the rest of her body flopped downward for only a moment before she righted herself, kicking off the wall while simultaneously hoisting herself up, propping her upper body over the wall. She tumbled to the floor of the new level in a state of waning shock.

She got up on her feet and scanned her surroundings. This block was identical to the level above her, but she saw something structurally irregular in the distance, and anything was better than these perpetual walkways. She sprinted ahead before any guards could surround her again.

But as she ran, as if on cue, a lone guard happened around the corner, his back turned to her as he shouted to what must have been another squad who had yet to appear. She took advantage of the element of surprise and ran flat out at the guard. Just as he turned to look in her direction, she dropped and slid forward, one leg strait atop one leg hooked against the floor, propelling her forward to the guard's feet. She kicked from the ground when she was upon him, breaking his knee and doubling him over. Once he was staggered, she shot up and ensnared his weapon-wielding wrist with one hand and punching him in the gut and then in the throat with the other.

She heard another guard round the corner and she turned, hefting the guard's body between her and the new foe just as he fired a burst into his comrade's back. When the impulsive shooting ceased, she spun again, coming full circle and unloading guard's weapon (which was still clutched in her meat shield's limp hands) into him. Several sparks of electricity shot form his armor, knocking him on his back but not terminating him. She dropped the first guard and viciously pounced upon the second, punching him strait in the face twice against the hard metal floor, causing him to stop moving all together.

Her head cocked up from her predatory crouched position atop her most recent kill and she saw what could be her exit: Just over the rail before her was some kind of power conduit, and a damn big one, at that. The glowing monstrosity of machinery was coursing with lances of lightning stemming from the asymmetrical, aesthetically lacking reactors that dotted the thing's construction. It was intimidating in an odd way. From here should could hear the crackling and buzzing of the raw element and she could actually feel the static stinging at her skin. Her antennae were going crazy while still trying not to overwhelm her nervous-system.

But she wasn't concerning herself with the machine- She was wondering how she was going to use it to escape this detention level.

She could hear security in the distance, both at her six and to her left.

Of all the risky ventures she'd put herself through today, this one had to take the the highest pedestal as well as a huge part of her conscience that she was trying very hard to ignore; she _knew_ this was a bad idea. The actions she'd committed just a little while ago were ill-advised, yes, but they were also almost 100% necessary. She _had_ to climb down the side of the platform because she had nowhere else to go. She _had_ to take out the guards back in her cell or she'd have never made it this far at all. But _this_, well...this was just unnecessary.

Her thinly-veiled concept of a plan involved jumping from this level and either climbing or sliding down the smooth, chromed side of the machine and then she'd just...she'd just go from there? Not only was this plan hardly deserving of the term is was also dangerous; the volts coming off that thing would fry her to a crisp is just under ten seconds. There was no way to get around the electricity and even if she did somehow find a way to pass through unphased there was no telling what would happen next. If the structure dropped off deeply she'd be careening into a floor that was a long ways away.

The motivational absolute "she had no other choice" lost a lot of its effectiveness here. She had many other choices other than this. She could try her luck farther down this level, risking an ambush or otherwise a quantity of enemies she just couldn't handle on her own. She could try climbing downward but such was almost as dangerous as utilizing a lighting rod to get to safety. Or she could stay here and fight until they sent someone to put her down for good.

"Or you could go back to your cell." the voice suddenly offered sarcastically.

"What do you suggest I do?" she asked, sounding both desperate and frustrated. Every second she stood here mentally pacing was a second they were using to mobilize against her.

"I'll tell you what you'll do," he said, "You're gonna strip the vest offa that mook you just killed and put it on. Then you're gonna jump like you've never jumped before and ride the conduit downward until you see a maintenance duct. Then you jump again, grab that duct and go from there. You got me?"

The idea had never crossed her mind, but how could it have?

After a few seconds of intense thought, she decided to head his words. If they were both wrong, she'd be dead and it'd most likely be quicker than what was coming for her. On the other hand, if she did nothing, they'd find her, beat her and throw her back into the dark. But, assuming this omnipotent mentor is right, she might actually be able to make it out of this thing...

"I hope you're not as crazy as you probably sound on your end." she said with gloom.

She crouched by the corpse of the guard and went through the surprisingly complicated process of undoing the clasp and lock to remove the dead man's vest. This was obviously top of the line equipment they were using, but it was a pity they didn't invest in training their henchmen more effectively...or in helmets.

She was about to finally remove the white body armor when she saw three guards appear in the distance, all of them taking a knee with their weapons dialed. She hardly had time to gasp when she heard them fire.

Her instincts took over again and she threw herself to the floor by the guard, grabbing the body and rolling it in front of her, the shock rounds punching into the corpse en masse. One of them grazed her hand, causing the glove to fly off (smoking), and the current from electrified fletches impacting her impromptu shield transferred through the tissue and shocked her bare hand. A searing pain bit into her and she gritted her teeth and clenched her fingers into a fist in a short-term effort to halt whatever damage may have been sustained; it could have cauterized or it could be bleeding, she didn't know. She'd just have to play southpaw for a while.

She kept count of how many shots were fired until the they reloaded. She counted 36 between the 3 of them, meaning each of their crowd suppressant rifles held roughly twelve rounds.

When they _clicked_ empty and her antennae detected the three empty magazines hitting the deck, she shoved the body away and dashed in the other direction. She ran into the guard with a stampeding fire of recklessness that made her feel free in a way she had never known in this lifetime. She jumped in split-step, sprung off the rail and careened into the open void of escape.

She pulled on the vest and snapped it tight against her as she flailed off. She hardly bounced when she hit the surface.

The pain was instantaneous, an unceasing wave of a peculiar kind of burning ache made made her eyes seal tight. She found that she couldn't control her body anymore as her muscles were all hit with a spasm of soundless screaming. She could feel something jerking and jolting under his skin and it felt like something was slowly being punctured through her heart.

It didn't even seem like she was moving. What with the collage of angry, jittery flashes exploding across her otherwise-blank vision and the grinding of her teeth into dust and the incessant buzzing in her ears, it was like she was trapped in an endless realm of suffering.

She was riding blind, deaf and in an extraordinary amount of pain, which went without saying. Amidst all these current sensations, panic began to rise above them; how would she know when to jump if she was almost completely pacified at this point?

Just then a new signal began to vie for her attention. The overall structure of the word was lost to the void she was in, but the meaning of it fought through. Even as she was writhing in the most absolute manifestation of dire straights, that little guardian on her shoulder was still whispering in her ear, never leaving her.

"_Jump, girl."_

She jumped.

The soles of her boots caught purchase with ease. Despite what she'd been thinking in her excruciating fever-dream, she had been moving forward, and quite rapidly. All of that momentum slung forward and before she could smell the smoky smell around her, she was flying through the air once again, the pains leaving a blissful euphoria in their wake.

The world came at her like a punch to the face. The pinks and the blues, the slats of metal and pylons of wire, and the _noise._ She hardly had time to prepare herself for the near-impossible cat-grab that kept her alive.

The duct had been right where the voice said it'd be; a simple square tunnel in the complex working of the bulkhead of the construct. The edges were anything but sharp and lacked the necessary traction to hold her grip for longer than half a minute, but she found a way to hold on when she hit. The shrill _slap_ her her bare left hand and the hard _bang_ of her gloved right rang in her ears, followed quickly by a searing sting in that left palm of hers. She didn't look at it nor sacrifice any attention to it._ Everything_- her wound(s), her memory, her conscience- they were all secondary to escaping this place.

That prolonged electrocution had severely sapped her strength, though, as anyone could have anticipated. Every physical part of her was screaming for her to give up and admit defeat, to submit to that nihilistic solace that she'd been born into, while her mind was only pushing her onward. She forced herself into a pull-up position, pressing her palms flat and kicking weakly off the inner mast, just barely climbing into the passageway. Her muscles were burning when she collapsed on her stomach, wheezing and panting. The endorphins had turned on her, pumping acid through her veins and a cold sweat all over her body, making her shiver.

That was rough. After having completed such an action, she was filled with an ironic confidence. The bravery usually associated with such..._stunts_ traditionally came _before_ committing to them, not after. But nothing today had been traditional. And now, after having gone through the gauntlet and coming out nowhere near unscathed, she found herself feeling something she had only just now named: Triumphant.

She groaned and made herself roll over; it was unnerving, despite her recent small victories, that her psychical body was fighting her every step of the way. She blamed it on the nerves and the intense disorientation that she had yet to scratch the surface of- She'd deal with those problems later. Now was the time for mending _tangible_ things, problems she could _see_, the first of which was her hand.

By now the pain had diminished (relatively) to a reactionary burn, something that would only bite if irritated. But before she could look at it she felt something white hot prick at her neck. Her gloved hand went up on instinct to touch it and she was met with a much stronger, much wider sting. She bit her tongue to hold back the vocal reaction and then she saw the cause: Her glove, as well as all the other pieces of body armor, were almost entirely singed to flaking crisps by the conduit's volts. The armor was literally seared black.

She froze and sat up strait, not wanting to lean against the wall of the duct and press the thoroughly cooked vest against her torso.

Whatever protective mesh or gel layer or lining on the inside must have been the only thing keeping the armaments from roasting her alive, meaning only the outside was hot to the touch. Lacking a second glove, she saw no clear way of removing the one that remained without burning the skin that remained off of her ravaged palm. Her brow dipped is frustration, causing a trickle of sweat shake loose and seep down into the gash over her right eye socket. She ground her teeth as the pain steadily subsided.

She pressed her gloved hand to the deck of the vent then placed her boot over it, pinning it down and straining herself trying to pull her hand out of it. It wouldn't budge. The thing had been made to match the wearer seamlessly- Not something that would easily be removed...unless she used both hands.

Her face dropped and she looked at her other hand. Though it was hard to make out in the darkness of the maintenance duct, she could tell that the skin of her palm was much darker than it was naturally. She slowly closed that hand and the brush of her fingers against the wound was instantly negative.

She stripped off the rest of the armor with her good hand, leaving the vest and boots in a lightly-smoking pile that she almost decided to kick out over the edge, hoping it might land on one of the guards. But such a gesture would only attract more unwanted attention, so she left the once-pristine wears where they were, turning away and beginning a tedious crawl through the vent.

She pushed all previous thoughts aside, vowing to give each them equal time when she was free.

* * *

Three guards stood in the coordinator. The floor was a collage of dimly-lit panels and metal mesh, lorded over by pink chrome walls and a florescent ceiling. Harsh décor for a harsh place, it seemed. It was a striking, "in your face" kind of design.

The henchmen didn't mind, though, or at least they didn't broadcast it. One would think, after a decidedly-long career in this facility, one would acclimatize to your work environment, or at the very least learn not to complain. So for now, while two conversed at the far end of the hallway, the third began a stroll in the other direction to go about his regular rounds.

He passed under a ceiling panel that had never given him any reason to suspect it of anything other than breaking the pattern overhead, and that passiveness worked to the advantage of the rogue convict lurking in the guts of this structure.

She waited until he was out of immediate earshot. Reaching into her back pants pocket, she fished out a spare buckle that had been on the strap of the riot rifle she'd used earlier. She stuck it into the grooves of the screws holding the panel in place and started twisting, hoping that the piece of metal didn't snap or bend in any way.

After a while, all the screws were loosed and only her one gloved hand held the panel in place. She pressed her head to the floor of the duct. She could detect the shifting and breathing of the guard farther down the hallway, not facing her hiding spot. She took advantage of the opening and lifted the grate, trying to make the gesture as silent as it could be, and sat it in the duct. She lowered herself down, dropping to the floor below on bent legs like a whisper.

"...already made short work of our guys on levels seven and six," she overheard around the corner.

"Anything serious?" the slightly younger voice inquired as she hugged the wall and inched away from them, hoping to round the next corner before the aloft third guard could make his way back here. Their idle banter was a welcome distraction from the always-looming paranoia- For once, she wasn't the one being spied on.

"Well, none of'em are breathing anymore, I know that much- All _five_ of them." the first voice said, adding emphasis when needed towards the end.

"Damn, one _prisoner_ did that? What kinda trash are we locking up these days?" said the younger one.

"Eh, I just work here. I will say this, though: You put a person in a box long enough, they'll change- _Especially_ in this place. Nothin' more dangerous than a caged animal, y'know."

After a few meters they were out of range, fading into muffled sounds. She peeked around the corner, saw no threats, and jogged onward. He now-bare feet felt cold against the hard floor.

Up ahead she saw a threshold that she guessed to be an elevator. She decided to take her chances with it instead of the various doorways that dotted this level; all of them most certainly required authorization that she didn't have, making her wish that she hadn't destroyed the datapad before, for whatever good it would have done her here. But an _elevator_ is a consistent, indifferent use. Sooner or later, someone would be walking through those automatic doors, and that's how she'd continue onward.

She reached the doorway and hugged the wall beside it. She clenched her fists in preparation. Though her path from this point would be more obscured and uncertain than any venture prior, she took solace in the idea of making headway. This path was leading her _somewhere_, and as she had thought earlier, _any_where was better than the present.

It didn't take long for her foresight to be confirmed. After about two minutes she heard the faint _ding_ of the lift reaching her floor before the doors slid aside. She detected one set of lungs; no stress or tension, no alertness. One pair of footfalls. She poised to pounce.

The guard marched past her, oblivious, and stood just a bit over two feet higher than she. Soundlessly, she lunged forward and lightly jumped, kicking out the back of his right knee and wrapping her right arm around his neck, grabbing her left bicep and pressing her other hand against the back of his head- A sleeper hold.

Just then a red light started bleeding from every inch of this place and she heard a voice speak over an intercom.

"_All personal be on alert. Prisoner seven-six-one-five has escaped the detention ward and is on the run."_

She heard the doors closing behind her and she couldn't stay to hear the rest. She raced back into the elevator with the guard in tow, the guard kicking against the floor. The doors closed before them, leaving the pair alone.

Upon realizing that she didn't understand any of the icons that denoted the locations on the control panel she loosened her hold just enough to let her hostage speak.

"Which one leads to the hanger?" she demanded.

Until now she had never gotten a good look at the actual faces of the goons she'd been dispatching but she was certain that this operation she'd become entangled in was multi-racial in its "staffing." This one particular sentry had rough gray skin like dried leather and slitted green eyes, with tiny horns dotting his eye sockets and over his bare scalp and down the base of his skull. His voice was, unsurprisingly, dry and gravelly but sinister, like a continuous _hiss._

At first all she received was a string of apparent-curses and epithets in another language, followed by a bout of furious choking and wheezing as he tried to free himself. She tightened her vice and kneed the base of his back, collapsing his stiff posture. She lowered herself and pressed her back harder against the wall to maintain control. After that, he seemed ready to cooperate.

After hacking up a storm he caved. "U-up three, over t-two..."

She didn't dare release him or extend one arm to press the button herself, opting instead to haul him in front of the panel and order him to do it. "Follow your own instructions if you want to live to see payday." she threatened.

He begrudgingly pressed the same button he'd addressed and she backed away from the panel, leaning back more leverage on her ill-begotten companion. She felt the lift ascending.

"Now I'll assume they'll be reinforcing certain levels to catch that pesky escapee," she started, her voice devoid of the intended humor, "I am wrong?"

"N-no-" he answered before she cut in.

"What level are we on, then?"

"...Sixteen." The reluctance to answer was strong in his tone.

"Will they be sending guards from the garrisons of fifteen and seventeen?" she inquired, building a plan in her head.

"No, fourteen and eighteen- But you knew that, But don't think you'll just bypass them, either." He was suddenly combative, "When we reach seventeen there'll be a whole squad waiting to intercept us- Or _you_, I should say." She detected a spiteful chuckle in his words somewhere even if he didn't show it outwardly.

"Well then, maybe you'll be good for more than pushing buttons." she countered darkly, though in her head she was thinking about what he'd told her.

A squad for most security forces was somewhere in the ten to twelve range. There was no way she could go toe-to-toe with that big a margin in such a confined space, _especially_ if they were all superiorly armed. She _had_ to know they'd cut her off once they traced her trail of bodies, and now she'd be forced to deal with it.

Her eyes darted along her hostage's person. "Damn," she twitched, realizing that his rifle must have been sitting in the previous hallway one floor down. Then she caught the sight of a pistol grip protruding from a metallic holster at his waist. She quickly snatched it up, thumbed the neon-red safety (which flicked to green) and checked its charge; 89%. Enough for maybe forty shots if she kept her ROF steady.

As the gears turned in her head the guard kept verbally prodding her, "It's impressive how far you've come despite what our eggheads did to you, Irken; no memory, no _identity. _How does it feel to kill without reason or motive?"

"_Irken?"_

"Oh, your lot gave me reason enough," she said absently, scanning her surroundings. No exits save the one before her that would be crowded with enemies at any moment, "You and I aren't so different."

"But at least_ I'm_ being _paid_." he chuckled.

She shook him once, shutting him up. "Do they pay you enough to take a _bullet?_" she asked, the tension noticeable in her voice. "To die for someone you don't even _know?_"

"Not bullets, no- Try concentrated pulse rounds." he corrected needlessly. The elevator ceased all movement. The button that had been pressed earlier lit up a faded orange three times, as if driving nails into a coffin.

"I suppose we'll know soon enough." she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, masked shoddily in an overcompensation of steadfast fearlessness. The las thing she thought before going back inside herself was _"What is an 'Irken?'"_

The doors slid to either side with a spiteful _ding._ Just like that, she was staring down ten goons, each with a rifle dialed at her with an air that said there'd be no hesitation to use them. After hardly a millisecond's glance she could tell that these weren't the same fodder she'd been brawling through until now; the discipline of the body language and absence of empathy in their poise spoke volumes to the differences. They had not just been trained, they'd been _hardened._ They were _specialized_ to deal with threats just like her.

Physically, they were untouchable. Their white/black body armor was thicker, akin to military-grade as opposed to private security. The shoulder plates were bigger and sheltered the subclavian and brachial arteries this time. The neck guard was much thicker and rose up past wherever their collective chins were, their whole heads being protected behind a white helmet with a vast black visor. A large slab of armor protected their groin and padding on their legs allowed for free movement while still safeguarding the femoral. They were simply _bulkier. _There's be no hand-to-hand with these guys. She would know where to start; the only way she could discern to kill them would be a clean neck break, and she could only do that so many times until someone caught on and rushed her to the ground, ending her. And that _tiny_ margin of success was in the event that they were unarmed. But they weren't.

Except the one that appeared between the two groups of five and walked down the middle, equally suited but differently postured. This must have been the leader- No one looked that comfortable in a situation such as this.

He approached her without the slightest hint of hesitation or reluctance. Like he _wanted_ to see her face-to-face. After stopped just a few paces from the threshold he signaled for to pair closet to him to move their groups back several feet. They obliged eerily in unison. All the while, she had one hand hooked around her meat shield's neck with her other _armed_ hand keeping a bead on the figure before her.

This man wanted to talk. She expected scorn, threats or some sort of half-winded bargain. No matter what kind of quasi-civil metaphorical hand he extended, she had no intention of taking it. She knew how these things worked; this was a "whatever's necessary" kind of set-up. They had a volatile escaped prisoner on the loose cutting a swath through their base of operations. They'd already tried throwing bodies at the problem and now every one of them was dead of the floor. Sure, they could go with their A-game boys and lay down the righteous hammer- maybe lose one or two of'em should the subject prove resilient- but they'd still get the job done, with one more body to clean up and space.

But that was the _hard _way; lose a few, save many. "Ends justify the means." But that would represent a kind of sick fiscal loss. Someone would notice how deep a scar one pesky inmate had caused, and there would be an appropriate restructure of how things worked around here. No- They had to keep up appearances. They had to demonstrate their ability to control a situation, no matter how much potential it had to explode in their faces. As of now, that meant reasoning with the unreasonable.

Their leader removed his helmet, revealing a face that was near-equal to hers in terms of the age. His skin was a faded purple and his tussled dark hair was shaved into a mohawk, a strange styling for someone of his assumed stature. His face which was nodded slightly downward was angular and wiry, with large, deep-set eyes that were cloaked in shadow by the overhead lighting, but were nonetheless dead-set on her. She could see that the sclera of his eyes was a vibrant yellow and riddled with black lines, stained glass. They looked subtly hostile. His upper lip protruded just a bit, meaning there were most likely fangs behind them. But despite all attributes to the contrary, he carried himself without the aggression that his race obviously exemplified. His young age would have been a deterrent to such an endeavor as well, but such wasn't the case, either. Something about that made her regard him a few notches higher than the scum around him- He was _professional. _

But needless to say, she wasn't planning on lowering her gun. She wouldn't make the first move, either. This was _his_ game now. She'd play the hand she was dealt.

His fiery eyes shifted around smoothly, like he was regarding the sentries with a kind of tedious distaste. His dipped gaze locked back on her. He spoke.

"We can talk." he started, his voice unsurprisingly youthful but mature, "My men here-"

"_You're_ men?" she asked suddenly in a sharp, scoffing hiss.

"_My_ men, yes. They _aren't _on loan from the warden and they _are_ being paid enough to follow their orders." He actually smirked, "Even stupid ones. But they are loyal. To me. Meaning when I tell them not to shoot, it means they won't shoot."

She kept him in her sights but nodded anyways, "So what are you doing now, going behind his back?"

"No, I just represent one of two options. Believe it or not, the man who runs this place does have a civil side but he'll just as readily resort to something much simpler than a 'talk-down.'"

Suddenly, his face changed, his eyes narrowed. _Anger._

Now he wasn't talking to her. In her direction, yes, but not to her.

"_Krouster_, you knowingly complied with this woman's demands, guided her here?" he stated loudly, but not yelling. It demanded attention as well as an answer.

The one who was obviously called "Krouster" rasped something akin to "Yes, sir." She just watched, temporarily struck. For the first time today she'd encountered someone who actaully intimidated her. She stayed out of it and took in what she could, searching for any twitch or mannerism or tell that she'd might end up needing to use against him.

"And you are coming from one floor down, meaning level sixteen," he continued, "Though it clearly states in your slated schedule that you're supposed to be on ten."

"Sir, I was just- She grabbed me from behind-"

"I'm asking why you weren't at your post, Krouster." he reiterated harshly.

Krouster had no answer. The leader's look traced back to her.

"I understand where your coming from, I do. You came this far through the thickest of it and you don't want to slip up now, when you can help it. But despite that we don't- and will _never_- trust each other, we need to at least pretend like we do." One hand left his side, "Give me my man and we'll negotiate."

The motionless pause that followed was anticipated by both of them. His posture softened a bit and he gestured casually to the guards behind him. He amended "I said I told them to hold their fire, you don't have to worry. You stay your hand, I'll stay mine. Let him go."

She knew what this was. Even though this was the farthest thing from a meet n' greet- after all, he obviously had orders to attempt to _kill_ or _capture_ her to the fullest extent of his powers- both of them knew that they needed at least a _surface level_ of trust. She didn't posses the status quo anymore, she didn't have any leverage. She'd dropped a few rungs on the chain. Now was the time to mediate. She had to show him that she wasn't a mindless psychopath that would kill anything and everything she got her hands on and _he_ need to show _her_ that he was a man of his word and wouldn't paint the walls with her if given the chance- Even if both things were undoubtedly appealing in both of their respective psychs.

And maybe that's why she complied just then. Because she could see that familiar look in his eye. He had all the destructive fire that she had, and just like her, he was now working against it, _it_ that had forged him and guided him all these years. They were both masking what they knew for the sake of what was necessary for each of their continued lifespans; _he_ had is orders, _she_ wanted to live.

She guided her gun barrel to the ceiling and released her prisoner. She took a bit of pleasure in kicking him forward, both hands going to clasp her gun in a prepared stance. Krouster stumbled forward and into the negotiator.

The lowly guard turned to look at his CO and then felt the squad leader's trained hand grab his chin. She didn't see the look in the goon's eye but she really didn't need to. The previously reserved and civil young man griped his comrades face with the one hand, spun his body around to inadvertently face her and jerked that hand viciously to the right. She cringed internally at the sudden deadness that shot through the guard. The whole time the leader's face was stoic.

He dropped the limb body to the floor. Without looking he nodded two of his men forward and pointed slackhandedly at the fresh corpse. They slung their weapons and grabbed the arms and legs, doing away with the dead man.

"Okay," he breathed with a toothless smile, those cold, golden eyes back on hers, "Let's talk."

She was honestly awestruck. It took every ounce of will she had to keep her jaw off the floor. Whatever she had done in her past life, it had desensitized her to violence, but some things are just plain disturbing. Of course, she could see his reasons- She just didn't like that she had to dig for them.

She was in uncharted territory now. He'd drawn first blood without hesitation and now she was to surrender her semi-guaranteed wellbeing and _level_ with this man? This one, who was capable of ending someone's life with less effort on his conscience than the actual physical motion of doing so?

Her brain did as it always did and ran through her options, only this time it didn't take her conscious input to shoot them down. Fight back and she dies. Run and she dies. He'd already said that current circumstances- being held up at gunpoint by ten men and politely forced to surrender- were about as lucky as she could get in this regard. They _would_ kill her, should she give them a reason, no matter how vague. Just like that guard.

She wished she had the voice here to usher her through this.

Her eyes flicked to the charge dial on her pistol for just a half-second but the motion wasn't missed by the squad leader. Her antenna sensed the breathing of one of the guards intensify slightly.

She closed her eyes; if the voice _were_ here, it wouldn't have wanted her to throw her life away.

She let one hand drop to her side. Her stance undisciplined itself. She flipped the pistol in her hand and thumbed the safety before ejecting the energy clip, both the weapon and the ammo clattering to the floor of the elevator.

As anyone would have anticipated, the negotiator looked pleased.

"I won't ask you to put your hands up," he said.

She looked around before exiting, deciding to walk a straight edge through the guards; didn't want any of them getting too close to her when she was without a weapon. Up ahead, the man was looking at her expectantly, most likely waiting to escort her somewhere she didn't want to go.

"But I will ask you hand over those screws." He suddenly accused, completing his sudden inquisition with an outstretched hand.

She would have denied the claim if she hadn't felt around her back pocket and discovered the hard shapes sitting inside. She must have recovered them from the air duct and held onto them subconsciously. But, more importantly, how did he know? She didn't want to end her streak with this and she dug the metal bits out of her pocket and placed them in his gloved hand.

His fingers never closed. When she tried to pull her arm away she found it ensnared, the screws falling to the floor.

Everything else happened in a blur. He'd had grabbed her arm just above the wrist and twisted, proceeding to swing her around to his back- not looking at her and still holding on- and then seamlessly broke her elbow against his shoulder. For a split second she felt the shudder of the breakage shoot up her arm.

_Snap_

Her scream was one of shock as well as the given pain. Despite not facing her opponent who still had her crippled limb in a hold, she tried to kick out his leg by sweeping hers quickly backwards. His boot shot up and came down hard on her bare ankle, breaking _it_ as well. She would have collapsed had he not hauled her back around only for her face to collide in earnest with his other fist. For a moment she couldn't see.

He let her go directly after and she stumbled backwards into several guards, who mercilessly pushed her onto her feet and back into their leader's presence. Her vision in one eye was blurred and it felt like her face was on fire. She reared her right back for a punch, a sloppy and weak strike that wouldn't have connected even on a good day. But she threw it anyway and the man parried, blocking it upwards and spinning under it to be behind her, pushing her into the wall while holding her good arm back at a painful angle. He put on knee against the base of her back and with both hands yanked backwards. Her right shoulder dislocated.

_Pop_

Another scream left her. This wasn't happening, _couldn't_ be happening. The _pain._

In one last futile effort to turn the tide she scrunched up her legs against her and ran up the wall she was against, trying to get behind him, but he was ready. He wrapped one arm around her other shoulder and neck and another around her left thigh and, having taken control of her center of gravity while she was in the air, knelt down and slammed her chest down on his knee. The air shot out of her lungs so fast she thought she could feel blood in her throat. She rolled off him and onto her back on the floor hacking and wheezing. She could still see her gun resting spitefully in the lift.

One defiant kick was all she could manage, and she payed the price. He effortlessly swayed his head out of the way of her foot, her calf now resting on his shoulder, and he grabbed the leg with both hands and twisted around on one knee. That broke her leg in three places.

To say she simply "screamed" would have been inaccurate. This was a terrible, death-fearing cry. A sound that carried to all within earshot the news that the source had been broken, smashed to pieces like the sound itself. A cry that reverted to the baser feelings of any living thing, the way a child would react the first time seeing its own blood-_ genuine agony._ Nothing was blocked out or ignored. And in this short little spat of a life she'd lived thus far, it was the most agonizing thing she'd ever felt.

The squad leader had closed his eyes upon committing the final strike. The whole time he'd executed every maneuver with a systematic boredom with a dull, uninterested look ever-present in his harsh eyes. Now was no different. He let her quivering, mangled limb drop to the floor. He pulled a combat knife from its sheath on his chest and twisted back around to face her before driving it into her other thigh with deadly speed and precision.

Her eyes went wide in what could only have been a bemused look. Her head lurched off the floor and her mouth hung agape, like she was gagging. Unlike those before, this strike didn't hurt. Maybe it was because her body was canceling out any further outer sensation in order to keep her conscious and functional, or maybe it just hadn't hit her yet. But somehow she knew the real reason, that this wound was more grievous than any of the others she'd just been dealt.

She could feel the man's presence level with hers and she heard his voice right in her ear. It sounded vaguely apologetic, but not in any way one would call "sympathetic."

He sighed before he spoke, his hand still resting on the handle of the blade in her leg, "It's cosmically unfortunate how the only things all lifeforms share are their weaknesses."

Then his voice changed. It was barren and devoid of warmth but not needlessly sinister, like he took no pleasure in what he was doing. However, that wouldn't at all stop him from doing it.

"That's your femoral artery," he said flatly before twitching the knife ever so slightly, making her yelp, "You leave it where it is and you'll keep until surgery. But Irken or otherwise, you pull that out, you'll have about twenty seconds to exact revenge." She gulped and clenched her jaw.

He went on, "Armed, you could drop one or two guys in a rush and maybe even _me_ if you can work around all but one of your limbs being broken." He paused, looking her in the eyes and then saying with a condescending tone "But I wouldn't recommend it."

He leaned back and gave her one more look before letting go of the blade, leaving her on the floor. When he expected a twisted face of despair, what he got was two flaming purple orbs glaring up at him. She retorted in an uneasy, shaking voice as she steadily succumbed to shock, "W-What m-makes you...t-think I won't?"

He looked unphased. "Because you didn't shoot me when you had the chance."

That being said, he turned away, the footfalls of his boot heals echoing down the hall. He knew her desire to live outweighed her urge to get even. Her burning looks faded to exhausted submission once she was certain he couldn't see her. The guards stayed were they were but she she didn't mind them. For now, she was concerned with the wreck he'd reduced her body to.

None of the breakages had been compound fractures, meaning there was no immediate risk of infection or other such exterior dangers. She could still move her left arm but any attempt to bend it was not only impossible but met with a searing pain up and down the green appendage. Normally, she'd be thankful for being _right_ handed, but the corresponding shoulder being dislocated made such a preference more of a curse; she didn't dare use that arm for fear of exacerbating the dislodged joint.

Breathing came to her hard-won and labored, and she was positive that two of her ribs were broken or bruised. Her breath came in short little bursts with anything longer resulting in an ache like someone was squeezing her lungs. She worked to slow her breathing down, hoping that none of her ribs were prodding at her lungs.

But the worst of it was her left leg- Her tibia was broken along with her patella near her knee, and her femur was cracked just before where it met her hip. Looking at it now, she could see the whole limb was curved slightly to the right. She averted her eyes and choked back another gag.

She felt the hands of two guards on her shoulders and tried her best to act resistant, even though she wanted nothing more than to be carried right now. If she put weight on either leg she was punished for it; a hot, sharp pain in her right and a massive, aching pain in her left. For now she was thankful that these guards had their orders.

That was, until their leader spoke up loudly at the corner down the hall, pointing at her with anger playing on his face, "Don't help her along, you _let her walk!_"

They instantly let her go and she fell to one knee, her _left_ knee. Sounds of suffering squeezed through her clenched teeth as she shifted her weight and glared daggers up ahead at the man. She could feel the blackness start to hug the edges of her vision as a subtle warmth began to overtake her. Her head felt heavy.

No, she couldn't pass out now, not here. If she was to lose consciousness, it would happen after she completed one last task. She would make it to the end of the hall.

With as much grace as three crippled limbs could afford she rose back up. She looked around at the guards before she rested one hand on the knife in her leg out of habit. She started to hobble along on the closest thing to a "good leg" that she had.

Every footstep was torture. The impact of the footfalls made her lungs lurch against her fractured rib cage, paining her and further laboring her cardiovascular cycles. Her lame leg dragged uselessly behind her and despite being on a smooth surface still flared up randomly. Her face ached immensely where she'd taken his punch and blood was caking around her teeth.

As her consciousness waned the lights grew brighter and the colors grew harsher, building up around her tiny, pathetic form and ready pounce and crush her. Through it all, she was starting to hear a voice in her head, but it wasn't the one from earlier, the one that had saved her life and gotten her this far. It didn't sound nearly as passive or aged. In fact, it didn't even sound male...

It was her own.

In a way she'd never heard herself talk before, she was being scolded incessantly by this mirror shapeless entity of herself. Something about her sounded different. It wasn't speaking in a cautious, reserved tone or in a low, safeguarded volume. She sounded commanding and powerful, "greater-than-thou," so to speak. And it kept calling her something she'd never been called before, something that she didn't recognize but, every time it was spoken, set off an alien pain in her mind.

The whole time she was getting closer and closer to an increasingly faded view of the squad leader. _"Just a few more steps,"_ her own voice said to herself, _"Just a few more steps."_

She collapsed in a heap. She felt nothing now, no pain, no voices, no instincts, no drive to fight on. She felt nothing but the inescapable urge to rest, to heal, to submit.

The only comfort she could have found was thrown away when she heard the man approach, he footsteps just as crisp as before, but in the other direction- _She hadn't made it._

She felt his presence yet again, heard his voice one more time before slipping into the caress of the void:

"You're name is Tak."

Her eyes rolled back and the soothing black took her once again.

* * *

Captain Creev stood over the Irken girl, a look of passive amusement in his eyes and an empty nebula in hers.

It had been quite a while since a prisoner had led them on such a merry chase. They _had_ succeeded in the end, yes, but in hindsight, she had highlighted exactly where their countermeasures were the weakest. He'd have to address that at the next internal hearing.

But still; _"One woman."_

"Sargent Meeshi," he called, "Front n' center."

"Sir." the operative piped at his side.

He gestured down to Tak. "Doll her up and get her stable," he ordered, his eyes temporarily clouded, "She just earned an audience with the warden."

* * *

Author's Note: So yeah, we finally got to see some asses get kicked. What ever will Tak do now? While writing this chapter I was trying _really_ hard to not plug Bourne lines, which is why I tried to steadily stray away from the memory loss as the chapter wore on- But as for the fight scenes I was at least attempting to emulate those movies, with just a bit of _Mission: Impossible_'s flashiness. I hope they sounded just as entertaining to you folks as they did in my head. This is also my first real foray into plot-developing dialog on this site; usually, I'm more of a "deeds not words" kind of guy when it comes to story structure, so please let me know how I did once the characters decided to speak.

Also, depending on how things start to shape up, the T-rating might be subject to change. Looking back on this chapter, I think I'm starting to walk a line here with the subject matter and the violence- Prison _is_ prison and Irken agents aren't trained to be non-lethal in any case. I'd like to know your thoughts about the content thus far and in case some of you find an M-rating objectionable, which seems to be a hot issue on this site right now; although, as a general rule, I tend to write first, rate _second. _

This chapter was also meant to be a bit longer, but I think 27 pages is enough for one sitting. That, and I think the ending lends itself to a cliff hanger more than what I'd originally penned out. That being said, Chapter 4 will be out much sooner than this one was. Probably. 'Til then.


	4. Chapter 4

Meleck's relaxed posture belayed the tension that played behind his eyes. The only thing that was missing from this picture, he thought to himself, was a slow spin in his chair and an animal lounging in his lap. But not everything can be the picture of perfection; for instance, take the men he paid to act as a security force or more directly, the lithe, lidded, deadly, troublesome, ferocious and ultimately frivolous Irken that was presented before him. At this point, he didn't much care if things didn't pan out precisely as planned, as long as they panned out at all.

Not many things could catch him by surprise. His home world was a forgotten rock in the far reaches of deep space and his kind resided on an arid desert planet that was devoid of anything anyone would call "hospitable." Anything forged in such a hellish reality develops a kind of armor, mentally and physically. His traditionally sandy reptilian hide had long-since been slow-cooked to a brooding dark brown with specks of sun poisoning dotting him in a tragically elegant pattern. The small horns along his scalp and neck were sun bleached and dulled down after so many years of varied conflict and struggle. But his eyes, though sunken and sickly orange, were all-seeing and nearly as sharp as his fangs, which were in themselves just a step below his mind; there was nothing he didn't detect and nothing he didn't know how to deal with.

Today Meleck was dealing with a particularly unruly prisoner, something he'd gotten very good at dealing with.

He liked to keep his office dim, not to mask the minimalist nature of its décor or to accentuate the glowing holographic art that graced the wall to his right or even to invoke some kind of fear in his current subject; this individual had escaped her cell and fled through several floors of a high security prison (one that was run by _him_) and killed five guards doing it- She wasn't afraid of a little darkness. No, he kept this room dark because he just didn't enjoy the light. He'd grown up in it- too much of it- and now that he had the ability to change such factors, he'd take indefinite advantage of them.

As long as he could help it, he would make sure that he was only one in control.

And at this moment, that meant keeping Creev on his leash.

Meleck had easily taken this mishap's measure, judging it solely on the look that twisted the face of his chief of security. It was fortunate that this young woman was restrained in a hover table and sealed in an anti-grav harness because if Creev had gotten his way (something Meleck liked to avoid whenever possible), he'd have dragged her into his office by her antennae. The glowering was barely contained behind his angular, youthful features, all of which told Meleck that he still might want a few moments alone with the individual that had complicated his day and made his life hell if only for a few minutes.

Meleck sighed noticeably when the captain had entered, shoved his prisoner forward and then unnecessarily pounded the door's sensor pad behind him, sealing his office.

When time had come to assign staff for this venture that would later become the most successful private organization in this sector, Dazine Creev had been close to the top of the list of recommendations and vouches Meleck had been given, a list of desired traits that, under any other circumstances, wouldn't be "desired" by anybody. It was a list most wouldn't want to be on at all, let alone placed at the top. It was a "skills manifest" asking for things like overt apathetic output, deadly-force crowd control, knowledge of how to kill without a weapon, experience with torture- in both administering it and receiving it- and, if possible, non maternal, parental or social tethers. The best man for most jobs was one with nothing to lose, nothing that would end up eating away at his conscience, so that after "disciplining" several misbehaving inmates and "interrogating" several more, they would be able to sleep soundly the following night, not a qualm to speak of. No parents meant no one to be ashamed in front of- Meleck could speak to that personally.

Needless to say, Creev had fulfilled almost every requirement, which is why it was he who Meleck had dispatched to rein in the little green poison pill who was stirring up a storm in his establishment. And within the space of five minutes, he'd done just that. Sure, Meleck wished he could've done so with less damaged goods- less broken bones, particularly- but as stated earlier, some things are unavoidable. When Creev goes out, as the Earthlings tended to say, "shit happens." And it's not like Meleck was going to lose sleep over it, either.

As of now, Creev was standing beside the prisoner and just behind her. His overall posture was sterile and drilled, his hands were folded behind him, but his head was dipped and his eyes were glaring at the Irken girl. Meleck could see the ripples in his face as his jaw clenched tight, the on-off swelling in his concave cheeks as he chewed on his tongue, and the shadow that was cast over his eyes by his deeply-furrowed brow. Creev was good at many things but masking his dispositions wasn't one of them. Meleck could tell that he was just looking for a reason to strike the prisoner again.

And when the girl he'd subdued failed to open her eyes and acknowledge his superior he was given one. He stepped forward and lightly (well, _Creev's_ version of "lightly") backhanded the side of her face twice, causing her to jerk upward and dart around for the source of the sudden pain. Creev made no attempt to steal himself and the two pairs of eyes locked out of their corners of their sockets, a clash that would end when Meleck cleared his throat, causing the two to appropriate their attention.

Now it was Meleck's turn to make an impression on this hellion.

Until now, he'd been leaning on his left elbow, regarding both with a passive but intense gaze. He sighed again and sat up straight.

"Captain." he opened.

"Sir." Creev pressed through his locked jaw while still managing to sound respectful, "The escaped prisoner." His tone was subtly seeded with sinister self-satisfaction. He stepped back to where he'd been, free to continue glaring daggers at her.

"So it is," he said absently as he regarded the Irken, "This one is the reason I need to space five caskets today?"

Creev's posture faltered just a bit, his voice defensive, "Sir, it is apparent that she's had some form of training in the way of combat and tactical evasion. She's not your average..." he looked over at her, "...scum."

The Warden hummed in agreement. After a pause, he asked "I trust there was some damage. How bad?"

Creev inhaled and glanced up, likely remembering fondly back to each and every bone he'd snapped in her body, "Only what was necessary, sir."

"I'll take your word for it." Meleck said, but before the young captain could start feeling comfortable he added, "I trust that won't be unwise on my part?"

His eyes disciplined, "No, sir."

"And will it _continue_ to be wise?" Meleck pressed.

"Yes, sir."

"Then if there's nothing else, you may excuse yourself, Captain." Meleck ordered, gesturing to the door.

Just as Meleck expected, Creev looked very reluctant to do so. He obviously wanted to stay and swiftly "correct" any problems this girl might create, but Meleck knew that he wouldn't get anywhere while this reaper was looming over the subject's shoulder.

"Sir, if I could-" he started before Meleck cut him off.

"Didn't you hear me, Captain? You are dismissed, excuse yourself from the room." Honestly, sometimes he felt like an overworked father.

With a noticeable pout on his face and a new fire in his eye, he made no show of turning and exiting the room. Meleck heard his footsteps grow heavy once he was out of sight. The Warden pressed a button on his desk that resealed and locked the door behind him.

They were left in silence, both uncertain and uneasy.

* * *

That slap she'd been given had done more than enough to rouse her back to full alertness and within a heartbeat she was ready to start throwing punches again. There was no way she would let them cart her around like some trophy.

Then she remembered what had transpired just minutes prior and the pain began to build all throughout her again. She had gone into some form of shock, but there were no biological countermeasures that were potent enough to alleviate the repercussions completely; simply put, she _hurt._ She _wanted_ to writhe, to curl up and forget everything that would remind her of this searing ache, but she found that she was also incapable of doing that, too.

The harness they'd strapped her into had her suspended in a dimly-glowing green stasis field that was anchored to a narrow table. Try as she might, she could not move any part of her body below the neck, and after catching another glimpse of the purple bastard that had put her in this state, she _really_ wanted to.

But now wasn't the time to worry about him. Now she was faced with a new foe: The brown lizard that was seated before her behind a desk. Everything about him struck a negative cord in her; his disinterested eyes, his formal attire, the air of greater-than-thou scumbag entitlement that he practically wore like a crown. That, and judging just by his appearance, she wouldn't expect someone who looked so blatantly barbaric to posses his own office, let alone the _head_ office.

But she was learning not to take everything she saw at face value, and had thee mangled limbs to remind her.

Another thing she kept in mind: That squad leader had called her Tak.

"Can you tell me your name?" the man asked civilly. She had little to answer with despite the moniker that had been muttered to her by that squad leader earlier. _Tak._ Even if such a strange, three-lettered word was truly her name, she didn't have the intention of giving these people anything, so she kept her mouth shut and her face neutral.

"Your home world?" was his second inquiry, to which she answered with silence.

He hummed to himself before asking "Where did you receive your training?" Once again, she said nothing.

In reality, she wanted the answers to all of these questions. She wanted to know why she'd reacted the way she did, why she knew the things she knew and why she was so apprehensive to give away the fact that she didn't know any of those things. If she was to die here in this alien place, she wanted to at least know if it had been for anything significant. But as it stood, all she had to go on was "_Tak._"

After a tense pause; "I must apologize on behalf of Captain Creev," the supposed-Warden suddenly stated with a hint of distaste at the mention of his henchman and her head perked up to face him, "He is...very passionate about his job."

She knew that if there was ever a time to feign confidence, it was most definitely now. She locked and narrowed her eyes at him and assumed a mask of bullheadedness. It was quite obvious that there were huge cracks in her armor, she just couldn't let him know that she payed them any mind.

"Well, I suppose someone around here has to be," she steadily retorted, clearly referencing the guards who'd done little to halt her attempted escape, "What was the count, again? Five, was it?"

Surprisingly, he chuckled. She didn't know if it was an act to brush her off or if he legitimately found it humorous. "Indeed, five it was. And I'm sure that figure could have been much higher had the Captain not subdued you."

"If that's the word you want to use..." she muttered, her head twitching downward for a second and her eyes wavering. She quickly recovered, "Are you going to give me the whole 'morality' speech now, tell me their names and how much family awaits the news?"

"No," he answered, "I hand-picked the personnel based on lack of personal affects." he stated tautly, like he'd rehearsed those words, "That, and I doubt you'd really care all that much."

"Then I guess we agree on something." she said back.

"Maybe, then, _that's_ a figure we could expand a little." He leaned in with a kind of leer, "Maybe we can also agree on how...disappointed we both are."

That caught her attention. However, she couldn't let her uncertainty show.

"Once again, that makes two of us; I was expecting the head of this place to be..." she gave him a once-over just for effect, "taller."

Chin now resting upon his folded hands, he was showing few signs of agitation. It was obvious that he had plenty of experience verbally sparing with unruly types, some of which probably ended up working for him in this place.

"'Tis a sad word, isn't it," the warden then stated, "'Could.' You _could_ have killed more of my men, you _could_ have gotten farther than you did," He leaned forward, "You _could_ have been free."

She had nothing to say, so he went on, "All of that struggle and hurt, and for what? So you could end up in a straitjacket with seven broken bones and a fresh target painted on your back? When you first escaped- all of twenty minutes ago- _that_ was your shot, _that_ was your prime. There won't be another chance. I watched you the entire time from this very room and you know what I saw? I saw potential. I saw embers than could have become flames."

She hadn't the slightest idea what to make of what he was telling her. Was she _supposed_ to have escaped, was this all some deranged test?

She cleared her throat before she cleared her head and retorted "Well, I'm not sorry to disappoint."

He chuckled again, only this time it was much more sinister. "Oh, rest assured- You will be."

* * *

Meleck slowly stood as the security detail that he'd arranged for entered his office and assumed their rehearsed positions around the convict. Two took a hold of her dolly while a third produced a vicious-looking syringe and, without hesitation, injected it into the Irken's neck. Her eyes went wide with shock which quickly devolved into agony as she felt the piercing sting of the temporal chipping process. A familiar-sounding scream filled the office and Meleck stood and watched, unwavering.

"That's quite the migraine, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically as she tried her damnest to break free of her shackles. He approached the dolly, "You keep thrashing around like that and you'll break your own neck." When she didn't heed his advice (if she even heard it at all) he nodded to the guard who'd held the syringe, who pressed a button on his gauntlet. Another bout of screaming followed, and Meleck winced at the proximity of the sound.

"You can hold still of your own accord or my men can zap you into submission, your choice." he threatened. "Come on, show me what I saw on the monitors." The guard activated the chip again, and again she jerked against the anti-grav fasteners, but her jaw stayed tight and she moaned through her teeth. Through wet, gaunt eyes she glared up at him with deep and haggard breaths pushing themselves through her lungs. She strained to be still, despite the obvious pain that was rocking her body.

"Though I can't hear the _buzzing_ and _ringing_, I'm quite certain that you can," he started, "That pain you're getting is the feeling of us 'tapping' your temporal lobe which, as I'm sure you know, functions as your brain's memory unit. Specialized synthetic chips can dig their way in there and make themselves known with the push of a button." On cue, the guard zapped her again. She didn't bother holding back the cries this time.

"But they decay and dissolve after a while, meaning every so often we'll have to pay you a visit and...change your leash. Until then, though your memory won't be _immediately_ restored, you'll be free of the...well, you know." He nodded, and she screamed again.

She struggled to raise her head and meet his. "W-why...a-are you telling me this?" There was no scorn or malice left to spike her words. She sounded hollow and spent.

"Because suffering is always worse when you know the reason behind it."

She winced, anticipating another shock, but none came.

"I know your name, _Tak_," he said with venom, raising his voice to dramatic levels, "And your _home world_ is the planet Irk, and you received your _training_ as a member of the Irken elite fighting force, the _military._ That's what you are. That's what you do, what you _did._ Once, you were a stone-cold killer that held a considerable title among your people, the Irkens."

Somehow, she managed a weak chuckle of her own. "..._once_..._?_"

Meleck struck her. A hard cross to her face knocked her head to her left and she felt something warm fly from her mouth and dribble down her chin.

Meleck stepped forward and grabbed her jaw, turning her to face him. With his index claw, he whipped a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth and held it up for her to see. It was green. He pressed her head back against the dolly and stepped back, not bothering to wipe off the fluid.

Meleck nodded for another shock, only this one didn't stop. He looked away to address Creev, who'd stepped in just moments earlier. Meleck had to shout at him to break his attention away from the screaming woman on the dolly. He snapped back into his professional poise.

"Escort her back to applied biogenics and send word to the lead research team; tell them their newest batch of chems failed- _Again_."

"Of course, sir."

Then Meleck heard his name called. It was her voice.

Her turned to face her, and what he saw honestly surprised him. Through the blood, bruises and bits of vomit and spittle, she had managed to twist her face into a sweat-inducing sneer. There was an emotion behind it that Meleck couldn't- _wouldn't_- describe. All he knew is that, once again, she had thrown him through a loop.

"What...w-what was...m-my planet's name...again?" she wheezed, head bobbing with every labored breath. A thin line of spit and blood was dangling from her mouth.

Meleck gave her a sneer of his own, "Irk, my dear, planet Irk."

Her face fell, and her deadly fire came back, "Then I swear on Irk's name that I will kill you."

Creev gave her a scowl and gestured for the team to get her out of here. Even as she was being sent away, she and Meleck kept each other's gaze. It wouldn't be broken until she was well-out of sight. The warden managed to get off one last thing before she was gone: "I'll be looking forward to it, Tak."

And then, just like that, things were as they had been. Meleck was again alone in his office, standing before his desk, looking down at his hand, at the dark green blood that stained his claw.

She'd made a threat, a _promise._ And after what he'd seen today, it would be foolish for him to think that she wouldn't at least _try_ to make good of it. One day, in the near-future, she probably _would_ come for him- _just_ him- and settle all of her newfound debts, maybe in this very room. Yes, one day they'd confront each other again, and on that fateful day the blood on his claw won't be the extent of what was shed.

"_I swear on Irk's name that I will kill you."_

But little do either of them know; that threat wouldn't come to fruition for another four years.


	5. Chapter 5

The weeks that followed did so slowly. After her "talk" with the warden she had been transported back to her cell in a half-conscious state, fully aware that she no longer had to work the act she had before. She didn't need to look tough, not anymore. There was no one left to impress, no one left to prove. When the guards did away with her she had let out an utterly defeated shudder and gone as limp as the restraints would allow. Only then did she grasp what he'd meant when he had spoken to her about failure. Those excruciating few moments in that man's office had been the bookender for what she knew as her shot at the outside world and she had effectively sealed herself away from it. Every footstep, every strike and every drop of blood had been a brick in the wall that now condemned her. And just like he had said, soon she would remember none of it.

The following day had been but another system reset. She once again woke up bordered by four featureless walls, no door or entrance to speak of, no light save the clarity her alien eyes afforded her in the murk, only this time there was no voice of reason to shepherd her through it all, and that's when she had truly given up. Every time she woke, her reaction was a bit different; this particular time she paced the walls, her hand gliding along them faster and faster until she struck the hard surface in abject, futile denial. For the next half hour she would be curled up on her bed like a child, her eyes letting out torrents of tears that cascaded down a face that was devoid of expression. The unknowns came at her in a painful storm that rocked every part of her, nearly rattling her to pieces.

Then the guards arrived. The wall across from her pathetic form distorted and gave way to several armed and armored figures that she neither recognized nor resisted. They took her and didn't bother using their deterrents. They simply re-strapped her into the dolly and wheeled her away. The blur of the new and awe-striking world around her was but a blur to her this time around. The pinks, the whites. the lights.

Before long, once she'd decided to reengage, she found herself on what must have been a surgical table, still restrained and still at a loss as to what had happened or what was _going_ to happen to her. Scientists milled about her in the white sterile environment that smelled of disinfectant and rubber. Everything was vaguely hostile. They loomed over her, spoke of her in terms she didn't understand, and ultimately made to practice their trade on her while she watched helpless behind her own eyes.

She spent quite a long time screaming in agony and terror. Needles pierced her skin, incisions parted her body, chemicals burned, stung and numbed her. At one point they had turned her over and started operating on something she hadn't at any point in this existence been aware of; the piece of oblong machinery between her shoulder blades. The things they'd done there had touched every nerve in her and shown her new ways to feel discomforted. She had no way of knowing what end this was towards, if there was one at all. The only bit she could recall with any degree of vividness was when they had crudely removed the implant above her left eye, something that she didn't know she had but _definitely_ felt the lack of once they tore it from her. _That_ was pain.

But all things must end, even terrible ones. When the team had finished their sinister surgery she'd been transported back to her cell and injected with something that burned in her neck and proceeded to carve a stinging path under skin and up to her forehead. They'd pressed some button and she was out like a light, tossed back into the dark.

It would go on like this for three months by the count of the narrator, as each individual day to the protagonist would be viewed only as a self-contained, "sun-rise and sun-fall" existence that perpetually began and ended, the only hold-overs and constants being pain, disorientation and fear.

* * *

Meleck walked at a brisk pace alongside his lead researcher, Dr. Nelko'Dan. Captain Creev followed closely behind, not really attentive to their discussion and regarding everything else with his signature leer.

After a semi-prepared report pertaining to what had worked and what hadn't and what they'd attempted to do and what they avoided, the warden cut into the barrage of words. "The _trials_, doctor. And spare me the jargon, not all of us went to school." Meleck ordered. Creev chuckled lowly.

"Ah, y-yes, the trials," he stammered. Nelko'Dan was a meek Vondervan Vortian who's desire to head their experimental tempo-therapy incentive was an irregularity to Meleck. Nelko'Dan struck him as a respectable man, a _decent_ man, terms he liked to think were shared by those who shared his profession. He was a _doctor._ As such, he hadn't the slightest clue why he was stationed aboard Eridanus, but that didn't stop him from guessing; maybe he was a "believer" and he intended to bring some kind of civility and ethical nature to where there was very little. If that was the case, Meleck silently reveled in how hypocritical and self-defeating that was, given what he had the eggheads doing on a daily basis. But there was always the other end of the spectrum, that the doctor wanted leeway to use his skills in ways that were not only frowned upon but downright _outlawed_ in respectable establishments; maybe he wanted to do what has never before been done in the medical field (for good reason). Meleck could respect that. So he kept him around.

"I will assume you are referring to our Irken resident?" he ventured.

"No, I'm just suddenly _so_ interested in what you and your team do every day; I don't pay you to _assume_, doctor, I pay you to make sure these people we box up don't kill each other." Meleck corrected.

"Of course," Nelko muttered before continuing, "_Ahem_- We are nearing the end of our third and final month of her temporal conditioning. By my estimate, Subject Seven-Six-One-Five should be ready for integration with the main populace by the end of today's biotherapy session."

"Is that what they call them?" Creev poked sarcastically behind the two.

He ignored the captain. "And can I hold you to that, doctor?" Meleck asked without missing a beat. He couldn't afford another...snafu. "Know that if you are wrong, not only will I hold you responsible but I'll personally space you along with the resulting caskets. And if I know you doctorate types, you most likely don't want your final resting place to be an asteroid belt." His tone wasn't blatantly threatening, despite his words. In fact it was very passive; casual, even.

Nelko'Dan chuckled awkwardly, "There'll be no such problem, sir, I can assure you. After the team finishes their work today there will just be the matter of selecting her cell mates and that will be that." As he said this he glanced over at Creev, who eyed him back with much more hostility. Any duty related to dealing with the meat fell squarely in _his_ jurisdiction.

"A-And I'm sure your man will handle the task wisely and efficiently," he said shakily as he tried to keep up appearances in the presence of the two immensely intimidating figures.

"Indeed he will." Meleck affirmed sternly, nodding to the security chief.

"With all-due enthusiasm, sir." Creev said.

The trio came to a stop at a railed platform that overlooked the cargo bay. Bellow them, the handlers lined up to unseal the newest batch of sleepers to be thrown in with their lot. There was no shortage of trash in this galaxy, it seemed. The distorted echo of the floor master reverberated through the hanger.

"More patients for you, doctor," Creev sneered with a dark grin at the doctor's side, Nelko barely suppressing a shudder.

After taking in the sights of his industry Meleck turned back to the scientist and said "Well then, if there's nothing else, please go and fulfill your duties."

He couldn't say he was surprised when the Vortian didn't heed his order. Of all the lab coats he had on payroll, Nelko'Dan was the only one who seemed unafraid to voice his concerns with Meleck's decisions, despite their differing natures. That unique aspect is what prompted the warden _not_ to send the gray alien out an airlock. It was always important to have a few people under your thumb who were cross with you. The opposition keeps you sharp.

After fidgeting with his thumbs, Nelko'Dan asked in an unsure tone "S-Sir, are you still opposed to my..._suggestion?_"

Meleck knew exactly what he was referring to, but he made the Vortian reiterate anyway, "And what suggestion was that?"

"To preform a transorbital leucotomy." He said with damning absolution, "Doing so would ensure no such, er, _problems_ ever again arise."

Creev sighed noticeably and looked away and over the railing. Meleck said "You of all people should know how little I condone such measures. There's no point in resorting to something as crude as frontal-lobe castration if all the hardships endured afterwards hold no weight of their own."

He caught the scientist's bemused look and amended "She won't _suffer_ doctor. I can't have that; it'd be like making faces at a blind woman."

There was an odd pause before Nelko'Dan nodded and bid the two of them farewell before swiftly setting off down another hall. Meleck chuckled and turned his attention toward Creev, who had obviously been counting the seconds until Nelko's departure. Such matters didn't interest him in the slightest.

"Well then," Meleck breathed, "So ends _her_ story."

"And what a story it was." Creev said.

"Well, let's not act so broken up about it," Meleck added sarcastically, "Captain, arrange a detail to transfer the Irken to General Population, once we're certain she'll be docile."

"And what of those who'll be living with her?" Creev asked. He sounded quite eager to group her with the most unruly kind they had just out of spite. Meleck knew there was no shortage of extortionists, arsonists, kidnappers, sexual deviants, murderers and plain-old psychopaths, all of whom hadn't encountered the opposites of their species' in quite a while. Meleck could see it now; a vulnerable, physically inferior piece of new meat with several disabilities; sure, those disabilities were temporary but any person who didn't think that any one of the criminals they had locked up in here couldn't make someone's life a living hell that ended in the worst way possible in the span of time it took for a few bones to mend, well...that wouldn't be a very wise person at all.

Meleck looked crossly at him, "Don't do your worst."

Creev's face fell just slightly, "Are you suggesting we give her the presidential suite?" No such thing existed.

Meleck's voice became stricter, "I'm not saying 'suite'; I'm not even saying 'her own singular cell.' But you _know_ just as well as I do that we can't just throw her in with the riffraff."

"With all-due respect sir, it's General Population; that's where the riffraff_ is._" Creev stated darkly.

"Than put her with the smaller percentage, Captain, the racketeers, the larcenists, the fraudsters and organized types- Those ones who'd be fussed over should they die of anything but old age. They won't be a danger, not to her." Meleck said, turning away from Creev and tapping his personal datapad to life.

"Well I may not be a warden, sir, but I do know something of how the proceedings go around here. Those connected men you're talking about? They carried _weight_ out in the real world and people threw ridiculous sums of money at lawyers and bribes to keep them from being locked up with the killers and sodomites, sums of money that dwarf what you or I make in a year. What makes this _Irken_ so special?" Creev said, his words laced with that kind of frustration that hadn't just developed overnight.

Meleck turned, his scaled brow furrowed. "She's a _girl_, Creev, a _young woman_ with no way of defending herself for _at least_ another two months. Now I don't know what circles you run with, but in mine we don't view," he gestured quickly behind him to the loading bay, "_these_ people as the the ilk who'd be decent enough _not_ to 'act' on that." He stepped closer to the captain, "And regardless of what circles you run with, while you wear those badge n' bars, you _will_ run with this one."

The tension that followed was palpable. This wasn't the first time the two had come to clash. They both had radically different philosophies about what they did aboard Eridanus IV, and no one but the two of them were truly capable of seeing that difference.

Creev wanted nothing more than to end the girl's life. Without hesitation he'd do it himself- preferably with his bare hands- if given way to do so. But because _that_ wasn't happening- because of Meleck's disposition- he would have to find another way to fulfill his goal. This purple-eyed devil had come into _his_ ship, killed _his_ men and made _his_ job that much harder. She had earned, with every bit of her, a grisly end at the hands of yours truly.

But Creev wasn't the Warden; this _wasn't_ his ship, those casualties _weren't_ his men and it was _not_ his job to decide her fate. This had stopped being his problem when he'd carted her into Meleck's office 82 days ago. But it still ate away at him, not the way he was treating her but the way he _wasn't_ treating her. No "torture" beyond the standard medical sessions, no work duties, no interrogation- Those slights she'd committed may not have been his concern but dammit, at least he _was_ concerned! The breakout and five dead men didn't seem to phase Meleck at all. Why wasn't he angered in the one place that really warranted it?

It was because Meleck, for lack of a better explanation, was Meleck. Indeed, he hadn't gone out of his way to torment the one who deserved it, and he had no plans to. She would remain unpunished, she would be treated with the indifference and protocol as anyone else they had locked away. That's all she was, just another numbered patch on a drab blue uniform.

Meleck had a set of ideals that many would see as bipolar, hypocritical and self-defeating. He was a merciless man, but not wrathful. He was cold but not cruel. Had had opposed Nelko'Dan's desire to lobotomize the Irken because he said she wouldn't suffer if such an operation was carried out. He still believed this; while she was aboard this ship, nothing about her life would ever be called "pleasant" again, but this wasn't because of some personal grudge or a sadistic social statement. Meleck didn't believe in inflicting any pain beyond what was assumed at face value. Yes, he would implant a chip in someone's skull and shock them with 20,000 volts to keep them in line, but he would _not_ condemn someone to a life of suffering at the hands of another just because he might have felt offended. This show he ran was no longer about _him_ anymore, not since its first day of operation, and it wouldn't be a tool to his biases and hates.

Here, a two-bit thief would be treated as equally as the double-murderer next to him, and there would be no exceptions. _That_ was his decency, _that's_ what made this place run.

Creev's face dipped and he snarled "That little hellion's a 'girl' in name only." With that he turned on his heel and proceeded to walk away, not bothering to fold his hands or fix his posture. Meleck's glare held until Creev was a good ten paces away before he called out to him.

"And _Captain_," he said with a theatrical emphasis on the rank, "I _never_ suggest things."

Creev nodded. Meleck held his eyes for a few more seconds before ordering "Get it done."

Meleck returned to his perch overlooking the loading bay, watching the line of naked aliens being marched steadily into the bowels of this place.

* * *

The cell doors actually _opened_ on this block. No holograms, no trickery; just plain-old fashioned plexiglass and laser sensors. This was because the denizens of this wing were of no threat to the guards that patrolled it; they were too broken, to old or too institutionalized to try anything as daring as an escape attempt. Instead of crazed opportunists and adrenalin-swilling maniacs, these people were little else but washed up cons, too-slow crooks, prominent crime bosses sent into hiding and just anyone who wouldn't last more than a week on the main floor. People like the motionless girl that was being transported here.

The guards, clad in their white and black armor that was all-too-familiar to anyone but her, stopped at one particular cell and stood the dolly upright. One of them looked to his datapad and checked the notification he'd been sent.

"_Ah; these two."_ He'd said, sounding reminiscent.

"_Hm? Oh, yeah, she'll be in good hands here," _the other one had said,_ "for the next hundred years..."_

"_Hell, even _I_ like these guys," _the first one said as he unlocked the cell.

They wheeled her in once the glass had descended into the floor.

"_Is there anybody you _don't_ like, Danazan?" _

"_I don't like _you_, Quorli."_

They propped up her dolly again, lowered her down and disengaged the anti-grav emitter. They took a hold of her without any real care and laid her on the lower mattress of the unoccupied bunk bed against the left wall. They sealed the cell and left, leaving her unconscious in this new place.

It took her almost an hour to wake again. Same game as before; no name, no memory, no hope. This time around she simply sat against the wall, wrapped her shaking arms around her knees and stared blankly into space. Somehow, to her, this "new" unknown land was different that what she somehow knew as subtly familiar. Her eyes didn't need to adjust to this turf. It was dimply lit from the floor and ceiling, leaving strangely-soothing shadows on the walls.

She saw the floor was a dull gray and the walls were a dull mauve. There was another double bed about six meters across from hers, and in between was a plain table with four chairs fascinated to the deck and a small sink and toilet against the wall to the right of the door, obscured from outside view by a thin, low wall.

There were also two vastly different figures looking at her with curiosity.

One of them dropped from the top bunk and took a step towards her. Her eyes went wide.

She acted on the only thing her mind had left and dashed off the mattress. With her came the sheets she'd disregarded earlier but now clutched in both hands and twisted into a crude rope-like fashion, leaving the middle slack. Her target didn't seem to show any reprisal and she was on him in a second.

She ducked under his arms which had come up in a non-combatant fashion and she slipped directly behind him, throwing the loose middle of the sheet back and over his face, pulling it tight and dropping to one knee. Her victim's body collapsed and the back of his bagged head was resting on her shoulder, right beside her face. She crossed the twisted ends of the sheet over her chest with a deadly grip on each end, the tension constricting the sheet over the man's face and he began to asphyxiate.

For a moment all she heard was the dry choking noises of her unfortunate cell mate, the tight rending sounds as the thread of the sheets was pushed to its limit and her own heavy breathing. Each breath of hers was met with a strange tightness and sharp pain in her chest.

She didn't know where this aggression had come from- why she was trying so hard to dispatch this random individual- but she'd be damned if she was about to stop. Something about this sudden rage felt familiar.

That was at least until she heard a second voice call out to her. It was, in a word, _simple sounding._ The words sounded unsure of themselves, awkwardly formed and annunciated, the vocal patterns unplanned and fluctuating. It didn't sound like any real knowledge was behind what was being shouted at her in an honestly child-like fashion. It was strange and for just a moment, her grip faltered.

Then she heard another voice. No, just just _a_ voice; _the_ voice.

It shined through the cobwebs of her conscience and bit into her mind like a needle. And as if she already knew, it wasn't coming from any particular place but was still clear as day.

It said: _"M-Maybe...you really a-are...as crazy as you s-sounded, k-kid..."_

It may have been broken by the obvious lack of oxygen but it still spurred all whole barrage of things in her skull. As her mind reeled, her hold on her improvised vice loosened even more and the man she'd subdued reached up to his covered face and ripped a hole through the sheets, his face poking through and desperately sucking in the precious stale air of the cell, the sheet now inadvertently noosed around his neck.

Her eyes went from a vicious death-glare to a drooping insecurity. She heard the simpler voice as it kept pleading with her in one disjointed way or another and now the man in her backwards grasp was trying to form words as well, each shaken syllable filling her pained, clouded brain with something else that was at the same time familiar and unfamiliar to her.

After her eyes darted this way and that, her face went stern again and she grunted as she reversed the hold and pulled the man forward in a quick, drilled movement, leaving him on his back on the floor looking up at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She suddenly became very aware of a throbbing pain in her arms. She tried her best to suppress a groan and her eyes twitched as a result. She tried making a fist and was met with a million needle-sharp sensations in her knuckles and joints. It was like she had been injured but remembered nothing of the injuries. She hoped these two new entities didn't detect her handicap. She looked down at the first one.

Now she could truly look bemused. This person she'd attacked, this _voice_ that had some kind of significance that she could only guess on, was right here before her, like a living figment of her fevered imagination.

His skin was of a pale pink hue and clung to his angular, blocky skull, riddled with wrinkles, liver spots and other byproducts of age. His mouth, which still gasped as she regarded him, held two full sets of surprisingly white, square teeth and a slight overbite behind thin lips. A well-kept pelt of light gray fur boarded his mouth and along his chin, cheeks and sharp jawline, the streaks of white steadily taking dominance. The hair on his head was a dark gray color and kept at a tussled but very short length. His eyes were being curtained by aging eyelids and were skirted by sunken bags but still held a warmness that spoke to her in a way nothing else in this place had.

The other being finally came into her view as well; he was about six feet tall and painfully yellow, with huge, monstrous arms and tiny, stubby legs, all of which were wrapped in a grayish-blue T-shirt and pants, identical to the one's worn by her and her victim here. She noted that none of them had shoes. His face, which was basic save the one large eye that dominated it, was currently wracked with fear at her spontaneous outburst of violence towards what must have been a good friend of his. He knelt down beside the elderly man and blubbered incoherently. She just sat by and watched, effectively weirded out.

"Oh no, oh no- Boss, are you okay? You okay, Boss?" he said in an overtly concerned tone. The man nodded absently and waved him away.

He was about to speak when she did so first, "Say 'jump.'" She didn't know why she had picked "jump" of all the words she knew. She didn't know why she was even asking at all.

His face was fittingly quizzical, "..._What?_"

"Say it!" she ordered, losing her cool for a moment, or at least, what _passed_ for her as "cool.

His eyes narrowed and his mouth sputtered silently for a moment before he consented. "_Jump_, damn! Jump, run, duck, shoot, _let go of me before I have a goddamn heart attack!_" he said in a rapid-fire fashion. She held steady before deciding that there was no real threat at the moment. Hell, _she_ was the dangerous one. She let go of the wound-up sheet, still on one knee.

The man fumbled in aggravation with the sheet around his neck and eventually yanked it off and sat up, rubbing his throat and putting his back against the edge of the mattress behind him.

"Boss, this girl's _crazy!_" the yellow thing exclaimed, half-cowering behind the bunk bed, "Aren't you gonna fight back? She's gonna kill us!"

"_No_," he rasped, "No, I don't think she will." He eyed her afterwards, as if giving her leave to speak, or at least telling her to prove the yellow thing otherwise.

"Y-You," she stuttered, not knowing how to word the things she was thinking in a way anyone would understand, "Do... Did we- H-have we met before?"

He made a face like he expected something more...articulate. She suddenly became very self-conscious and she lightly blushed, awkwardly bowing her head and hoping the man would speak over her. His strangely small, white and hazel eyes looked into hers and he chuckled, but in a way that told her nothing about it was funny.

"I've met _one_ version of you, but the memories of that moment are gone along with the person in them," he answered, both her and his companion trading puzzled looks before he cleared his throat and went on, "In layman's terms: Yes, we've met."

"Then do you know who I am?" she asked eagerly, leaning forward.

"You asked me that the first time." he said wearily, smiling and rolling his eyes and looking back at her matter-of-factly, "And I hate repeating myself."

"So 'no,' then. But do you know where we are?" she asked, looking around the cell.

He sighed, "You asked me _that_ the first time, too."

"We're in jail," the yellow one blatantly stated.

Her eyes narrowed, "You mean to tell me this place is a _prison? _And what have I done wrong?"

The old one chuckled, "Says _you_, little lady. If I were a gamblin' man, I'd throw smart money at the notion that you don't even know your _name._" He hefted himself onto the top bunk with a tired sigh and the bedsprings sighed right back, "_Much less_ whatever heinous acts you committed to get thrown in here. For all we know you could be a psycho killer, wiped out an entire town when someone stirred your coffee wrong." His tone was very speculative and didn't sound like he believed his words in the slightest.

The yellow one's face dropped, then began to slowly twist in fear, "But she's..._not_, right, Boss?" His thick fingers were drumming together. She wondered if that thing knew that, if he wanted to defend himself from her, he'd have no problem absolutely pulverizing her. That being known, she made sure to be as civil and nonthreatening as possible in his presence. She was surprised he'd done nothing to halt her accosting of his friend just moments earlier. _"A gentle giant, it seems..."_

The old one gave her a wry look, like he knew, "That she isn't. If she were any kind of dangerous, she wouldn't be in with _us two._" He reached over and patted the yellow one's massive arm and the creature smiled dimly in response, "We're safe, my friend. Fret not."

"_That wasn't your opinion earlier."_ Somehow, she felt vaguely offended at being written off as "not dangerous."

"And just who _are_ you two, anyway?" she inquired, relaxing into a sitting position, legs folded.

The old one's eyes seemed to light up in an ironic sense of self-admiration. He sat up straight, adjusted the hem of his shirt and brushed his minimal hair to the left in a crude fashion, "My dear, they call me Clo." His words were lilting and lyrical, which mixed with his deep, slightly dry voice to an admittedly cultured effect...which was quickly erased when his brow furrowed and his eyes gave her a "you get it yet?" kind of look. He flopped down on the bed unceremoniously and tapped the yellow one with his foot, "Introduce yourself to the madame." His tone had none of the chivalry that it implied, instead sounding quite sarcastic.

"I-I'm Oblak... Nice to meet you, scary lady." he said

"U-Um," she stuttered, feeling estranged, "Nice...to meet you?" She blinked several times and averted her attention to the old one, "You said that they _call_ you 'Clo.' Is that not your real name?"

His head rolled over to face her, "I said _they_ called me Clo, and by that modifier, _you_ will call me Clo." His grinned, "You know, like 'glow,' only less pretty."

"And less letters," Oblak proudly, like he was trying to impress her with his analytical skills. He smiled sheepishly at her, "What's your name?"

"Oblak, I just said she wouldn't possibly know." Clo cut in. Oblak frowned and looked back away from her.

She sensed his disdain and said "No, he's right." She stared off, "I don't know."

They all just sat in silence for a while after that. There wasn't much else to say between the three of them. Clo glanced at her, then at Oblak, then said "If I had some fine liquor, I'd drink to that." He tossed her the tattered sheets she'd used to choke him before slipping under his own. "And as much as I'd _love_ to get to know our new friend, I'd much rather get some shut-eye- You woke us both up, you know. Now let's all contemplate existence in our sleep. It's damn-near three in the morning."

Oblak hunkered down to collapse in his bed. She was about to abide by his words as well until something occurred to her.

"Clo."

The two cell mates both looked at her.

She went on, "How do you know that?"

He visibly stiffened. His eyes made like they were searching for words before he turned back over, "I just know. You spend enough time in here, you'll know, too."

It was pretty obvious to anyone that there wouldn't be anymore conversing for now. She sat there still, looking down at the floor, not seeing the hesitant wave that Oblak bid her before curling up on the bottom bunk, which was very near collapsing; smart choice of sleeping arrangements on Clo's part, having chosen the upper bed.

She got up and tried to slouch into her own bed with some dignity. She found that she was having trouble putting weight on her right foot and every other step became a challenge. She was deathly tired, as if the brief rush of adrenalin from their little scuffle had burned her out completely. In actuality, _everything_ in this room made her feel tired; the low light, the soft darkness, the mellow colors, the disinterested and subservient criminals she was now rooming with, and the way Clo had implied that she would be here as long as he had and become as old as he was. Like they hadn't the slightest desire to escape.

She looked down at the torn sheets in her grasp. She saw the tiny little nicks and bruises on her knuckles and the welts and calluses on her palms. She tried once more to make a solid, tight fist and was able to curl it further than before but the pain shot back up her arm after a while.

"_You spend enough time in here, you'll know, too."_

Something in her spoke, not in her voice, "Be glad you're still not a gambling man, Clo. I don't plan on sticking around."

Once again he simply chuckled, "You said that the first time, too."

* * *

Author's Note- Forgive me if things seem to be slowing down some, but I feel that these were important conversations that had to be fleshed out but didn't fit the pacing of the narrative outline I have for the next chapter. That being said, things are going to pick up in a big way _very_ soon, now that all of this pesky _plot_ is out of the way (for now). I promise you all this: This prison won't be the setting much longer.

And rest assured, Zim will return. Can't have a Zim story without Zim, now, can we?


	6. Chapter 6

She woke up the next morning to a much brighter cell and the sound of her two newest associates, Clo and Oblak, talking at the table, sitting across from each other. It was warm in this space they shared, something she hadn't noticed before. She didn't know if each cell was remotely climate controlled or if their collective body heat had filled the room overnight. Either way, she took comfort in the warmth of her bedding and did her best to enjoy it while she could. She closed her eyes whenever they made to glance at her and would always go back to conversing once they were convinced she was still asleep. She did this to see how they spoke of her when she wasn't there.

"_Hey, if she wants to sleep in, I say let her."_ Clo had dismissed.

"_Maybe she's still tired. She was awake for a while after we went to sleep."_ Oblak pondered innocently.

Clo had leaned in, "Now how would you know that if you were asleep, Oblak?"

She didn't see his guilty grin on account of his back being to her, but she could imagine it pretty clearly, _"I sort of...stayed awake."_

Clo sat back and crossed his arms like a parent questioning a child, his face transmitting _"Aaand?"_

"_She was saying things, Boss. I thought she was talking to me so I answered her a few times. Then I guessed she was just talking, y'know, in her...sleep?"_

Clo only snorted at this, _"I 'd believe that more than the idea of her wanting to talk to you."_

Oblak said nothing. After that they went on to discuss something else, but she payed it no mind, too occupied with this new information: She had been talking in her _sleep?_ And he'd _heard_ her?

After building up the courage to leave the embrace of her bunk she decided that this was too great an opportunity to pass up. Anything she could learn about her identity was another stepping stone towards finding out why she was in this damned place and more importantly, how to escape it.

She rubbed her eyes and slipped out from under the sheets, the hard floor of the cell on her bare feet still as cold as it had been, despite the climate. Her first few steps were careful, remembering her damaged right foot. The two at the table noticed her and Clo patted an empty chair, "_Morning_, sleeping beauty. Have a seat, coffee's on. Eggs in ten minutes." Oblak just waved, smiling. She stared for a second before waving back and sitting down.

The two just kept talking about nothing in particular; work duties she'd never heard of that they hoped weren't assigned to them, the food in the cafeteria she'd never seen that they found distasteful, recreational events from their respective planets, guards they didn't like, ect. She found their abrasive back-and-forth slightly entertaining but not enough to distract her from the task at hand.

"Oblak." She said rather loudly, effectively cutting into their conversation about the efficiency of the inspection schedule. They both turned to her, Oblak looking shocked and Clo simply looking curious.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Oblak, you heard me talking in my sleep last night?" she inquired in a slightly skeptic voice, figuring the topic was acceptable considering it was about her and brought up when not in her direct presence. She had the right to discuss it, she surmised.

Oblak looked quite stricken, eyes darting between her and Clo. When they finally settled on Clo, as if seeking guidance, he just put his hands up as if to say _"Hey, you're the one eavesdropping here."_

The yellow giant looked back at her, twiddled his fingers nervously for a bit and finally started speaking his piece. He gave her the same story he'd given Clo, which was pleasing in its earnestness; about how he'd stayed up upon hearing her, thinking she was talking to him but instead turned out to be herself, all recited like a child confessing a bad deed.

She nodded, "Mh-hm, and what was I saying?" A bit of aggression was creeping into her words.

Oblak must have felt uneasy but he continued anyway, "Just...well, you know...stuff. It didn't make any sense to me. You just said random words, maybe a few names?"

Her antennae perked up, "Names? What names?" She was very near the point of crawling across the table and grabbing the creature's shirt collar. "_Tell me_ you remember."

"I-I...I remember?" he answered. She made a quizzical face, Clo's cue to intervene.

"You're wasting your breath, girl." he said with learned absolution, "He'll say whatever you tell'im too. Our yellow friend here's the most textbook picture of co-dependency I've ever seen; he was _born_ to follow orders. Hell, that's probably what got him in here." He cleared his throat, "What I'm saying is he probably doesn't recall any of the gibberish you spouted off last night."

She looked back at Oblak, who looked between the two of them before nodding slowly. She let out an exasperated sigh and flopped back in her chair. Damn.

"Zim." came his delayed, unsure response. She refocused on him.

"What?" she asked.

"Zim." Oblak repeated, looking upward like he was making sure his words were exact. She half-expected him to start counting on his fingers, "Yeah, that's it. You kept saying that, among other stuff. 'Zim.'" The older inmate's brow flared in interest, taken off-guard at his friend's rare moment of clarity.

"An old friend, perhaps?" Clo asked curiously.

Her face hardened in thought, her eyes distant.

That...had to have been a name; too short to be a colonial settlement and lacking the call number for any kind of vessel. She looped it over and over in her head but was met with no faces or memories, nothing to associate it with...except the sudden rush of emotions that began to fire off in her. Suddenly she felt betrayal, regret, anxiousness, forlorn and...strangely enraged.

"I don't know _what_ 'Zim' is." she said finally.

The energy that had built in the room settled. Oblak waited for a while before turning back to Clo and trying to reignite their discussion of earlier, and Clo was more than happy to oblige, though every so often he eyes would turn concerned and he would glance at the girl before looking back to his one-eyed friend.

"Jeez; way to prove me wrong, buddy..." Clo quipped to Oblak, who just shrugged.

* * *

Routine became the defining element of her existence. After coming to terms with something as damning and unthinkable as incarceration, you wouldn't think that something as mundane as a list of daily tasks would be able to take one's mind off of it. But you would be wrong, not just about the acceptance of the daily grind but about her coming to terms with it.

That first night in the cell had been hard for her. Physically, her body was still aching all over and the reason eluded her. It started in her left arm then worked its way into her chest, then radiated some from her ankle and up her leg. But she could deal with physical pain; in situations like this, one would welcome it. What ate away at her throughout the night was the idea that she was being buried away. She knew no world but this one, yet somehow she knew that wasn't true. Simple deduction told her that this was a space station, operated by living beings, that was traveling indiscriminately through the galaxy- And she was being left behind by all of it.

With that in her mind, she spent much of the remaining night hours tossing and turning, trying shut out everything around her and force herself into a blissful sleep, like she would wake up and none of this will have been real. When she did finally succumb to her weariness she was plagued with visions of people and places that she didn't understand.

The day that followed wasn't any more pleasant. After some time moping about in her cell- pacing, starring and trading the occasional monosyllabic grunt with Clo- a detail of guards, clad in thick black & white body armor and comprised of various species of bipeds, came to their cell and ordered them to wait outside in a neat line against the plexiglass guard wall. One guard watched them while the other two conducted a quick but thorough inspection of their cell, sparing none of the minimal nooks and crannies. All the while she was awestruck at the sheer size of this place, at the massive drop that lay before her and the long line of other convicts that flanked her lot on both sides, every cell on the block undergoing inspection. There had to be at least a thousand inmates in just this section alone. They all varied in shape and size and color, some towering over guards and criminals alike, others barely reaching past her waist (_her_ waist). Very few were identical in race, making the whole image a multicolored circus of alien beings.

Once the guards were satisfied nothing was amiss they sealed the sell and ordered all of them to turn and face the bright abyss behind them. They obeyed and as the guards cuffed each of them she saw that there was another level identical to their's across the chasm, maybe twenty-seven meters away, equally crowded with bodies and going through the same charade as them. She couldn't help but notice that the guard seemed to take extra time fastening her cuffs, clamping them tight over her wrists and exacerbating the pain in her arm. She did her best not to wince in front of everyone.

"Still more comfortable than that ring the ol' Lady gave me, Eh?" Clo quipped to the guard cuffing him, "Ah, you don't get it."

Then the transports arrived, several droves of hovercraft about 30 feet long operated by a single driver and a two-man guard detail armed with some kind of rifle and baton. _"Riot deterrents."_ She made a note that the transport guards were fully helmeted and much more thickly armored. The transport was devoid of a roof housing, making it more like an ovular platform with an engine. In the center were two racks of personal harnesses facing out either side of the craft, each transport capable of accommodating eight prisoners at a time.

The transports hummed alongside the guard wall, which retracted into the floor, and they were all piled into these small craft. She was locked into the dolly and put in some kind of partial stasis, a green light enveloping her and paralyzing every part of her save her head. Oblak was on her right and Clo was at her left. Once the level was loaded up they all departed en masse, the facility flowing by in a haze of pink. Nobody spoke, but every so often Clo would lean his head over and mutter some kind of observation to her about what she was seeing.

They touched down in another section of the ship, this one much more open but equally as condemning as the cell block. They were released from their anti-grav shackles and marched at gunpoint through a series of hallways that were lined with camera hubs and motion-sensing automatic canons. This little tour would eventually end with the river of blue-clad convicts mouthing out at the entrance to a big, wide-open room with a high ceiling and rows and rows of tables. The smell of processed "food" wafted from the kitchen on the far side.

"The cafeteria." Clo murmured behind her.

"Yeah, I got that." she said back.

Everything afterwards was pretty commonplace. The guards dispersed around the cafeteria while another platoon lead them through the food and utensil stations, the latter which came understandably at the end. After picking up a thin plastic tray she walked along the counter. Oblak nodded and smiled at the creature behind the glass, a purple globule-type thing with multiple tentacles tending to various tasks and what looked like tacky makeup on what looked like a face. The green girl didn't get a very good look at her considering the counter was barely below her elbows.

Oblak nodded and smiled cheerfully at the server, "Hello, Mrs. Mi'Kloctu."

The apparent-female spoke in a dry, deep voice who's unseemliness betrayed her warm, if disinterested tone, "Mornin', Oblak. You sleep well?" As she spoke she scooped up a glob of chunky yellow muck and plopped it down on Oblak's tray. The giant looked delighted for the meal while the green girl behind him was just agape with a thoroughly raised brow, in danger of becoming green for a different reason at the sight of what she was expected to eat.

When her turn came up she looked totally lost and simply set her tray on the counter and pushed it forward, her neck straining from having to look upward for so long. Sure, she had grown a decent amount, but the server was still hardly within eyesight. She heard it lean forward to get a glimpse of her, giving her a wary look before grunting and slapping another mound of slop on her tray and gesturing down the line. She eyed the mush before hesitantly walking away. Behind her she heard Clo.

"Got somethin' good for me this morning, Gladys?"

"Only the best, Clo," she answered, with a bit more sarcasm than she had with Oblak.

They passed a drink station where a machine dispensed one small cup to each of them and filled it with a pale blue liquid. After that they were aloud to disperse to wherever they wished to sit; small freedoms and all that. After taking an exploratory sip of the drink, which had only a little bit more taste than water, she turned to locate Clo and Oblak. The whole cafeteria was seated by this point but the noise one would expect wasn't there, just the calm din of conversation, either because it was too early to be rowdy or because no one had interest in being exuberant at this point in their incarceration. Neither would surprise her.

She had a hard time discerning what was what in the crowded space, and now she was standing knock-kneed before the entire cell block looking especially ousted. She may have been hardened to some unknown degree, but alienation is pretty universal. She tried to pick out Clo's beard or, more easily, Oblak's hulking yellow form, ignoring the occasional leer from the other inmates, some of which were a bit too "thorough," some eying her like a possible threat, others like she was a piece of meat. When she finally did see the two she had made her way there in the quickest of fashions, those errant looks dogging her all the way there.

She hurriedly sat down beside Clo. She kept her head down and inspected the slop. It was dull gray and peppered with shapeless bits of...green stuff. Clo saw the bemused scowl that she fought hard to keep back and chuckled, the rest of the table following suite.

"Glad you could join us, girl, 'fraid you got lost. What'cha think of the food?" he asked, his words thick with rhetoric.

"This qualifies as food?" she asked, scooping up a spoonful of the stuff and watching it ooze off to rejoin the main mass. _"Ick."_

"Aw, don't be like that; Gladys worked real hard to get that out." he said with faux-remorse.

One of the others spoke up, "Yeah, and I'll bet it took two whole rolls of toilet paper afterwords." Another slapped him on the arm, laughing. Clo just rolled his eyes and downed a few bites of the mush without any hint of disgust or hesitation, much to her amazement.

One of them spoke, "Gotta say; the only thing harder than eating this crap would have to be preparing it. Rather stare at the walls of the cell than a drum full of this all day."

"'Preparing it?' Is it really that hard to open a container and add water?" another poked.

Clo eyed him, "Oh, I'm sure you'd find a hard way to do it- Then do it _wrong._" The other inmate hummed in sarcastic confirmation.

"Her surname doesn't match her first name at all," she spoke up said, "Why do you call her 'Gladys?'"

Mouth full, Clo answered, "Eh, just somethin' I've been doin' since I got here; she _looks_ like a Gladys, don't she?" He looked to his table mates for affirmation and they all nodded, playing along. "Wouldn't you say so?"

"I don't know what a 'Gladys' is."

An awkward pause fell over the table before one of the inmates eyed the bearded convict, "Geez, Clo, your new friend's a real bundle of fun..."

She'd been introduced to each others. Rakii, the one who'd made the toilet paper comment, seemed to be the comedic center of the group. He was predominately red and vaguely avian in body type, very sharp, angular features and a naturally armored, bony face headed by a beak-like snout. Multicolored spines stuck out along his head and dark pigmentation around his wide eyes. His manner of speaking was slick but rough; a very urban tone based more around an abundance of speech.

Next to Rakii was Tearahan, a green-skinned humanoid with large, slitted eyes and a mouth that seemed to be made up of several seams. It only opened just a bit when he spoke in a prim, level voice that resonated culture and intelligence, but after watching him she saw that his mouth was capable of opening to very large proportions and was lined with multiple gangs. Despite his collected demeanor, watching him barbarically clean his plate was legitimately terrifying.

Across from Oblak on her left was Narzine. Something about him didn't sit right with her. They way he carried himself, his speech patterns, the look he always had in his eye when he wasn't being addressed. He had a lean, angular face and light purple skin, faded pigment stripes running down the back of his neck and probably his whole back. He had thin little three-inch tendrils on the corners of his mouth that twitched when he spoke and ate. His eyes were deep-set and brooding, golden colored and woven with a black spiderweb-type pattern. She made sure to keep an eye on him.

On one of her first meals with the group, Rakii had asked her something quite peculiar.

He'd been on the tail end of one of his own stories, "... Anyway, I told that som' bitch that I wasn't goin' _back_ in that goddamn cell 'til he got that guy who checked me and tossed him out an airlock. Sure enough, guard goes to restrain me, I swing on'im, and next I know-" He slapped his hands together, "I'm out, hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Didn't remember anything for almost a month." He chuckled.

"Maybe you could remember not to attack the guards if only you could go more than a week without temptherapy." Clo said.

"And that would entail that you _stop attacking the guards._" Tearahan added with playful scorn.

"Aah," he dismissed, "Those guys are practically _askin'_ to get their asses kicked, all prim n' proper with their sexy white armor and whatnot." He looked at her, "You know what I mean, don'tcha? I mean, more than anybody, really."

She had no idea how to respond to that. He spoke as if she knew anything about fighting, let alone fighting the guards. She noticed Clo giving Rakii a cross look and the inmate looked a bit embarrassed.

Narzine cut in, "Allow me to reiterate for my friend here; it doesn't surprise me that he's a bit forgetful when it comes to the memory wiping."

"Which I'm guessing has something to do with me?" she surmised, sounding a bit aggravated. That, and she _would have_ expected to hear this information from Clo. For some reason, it would have felt more comfortable.

"Mm-hm, all about you; unless you _remember_ breaking out of your cell and making a break for the hanger and killing five armed guards in the process. Bare-handed."

Her purple eyes widened comically. Rakii, Tearahan and Oblak were all drawn in and watched silently, Oblak trying to quietly swallow food as he did so.

All she could do was stammer, "Your...I-I'm...w-what?"

"She's a quick one, Clo." Tearahan said lowly, Clo grunting and bumping him with his elbow.

Narzine went on, "'W-what' indeed. Certainly an appropriate reaction. Yes, you were the first one to attempt an escape since before anyone _here_ can remember." He paused, then, "Well, maybe Clo."

Oblak added "And Clo helped."

She reeled around to face the older man, who gave Oblak a "Seriously?" kind of vindicated look. He finally looked her in the eye and put down his spoon, "I may...or may _not_ have coached you through the whole thing. Or, most of it."

"...H-How?" she demanded, still dumbstruck.

Clo tapped his tempo, "_This_ is how. If I could explain it, I wouldn't be locked up in here with you; I'd probably be the one sedating and wiping Rakii each week." The aforementioned convict gave Clo a gesture she didn't recognize. Clo went on, "But ever since I've been aboard the Eridanus I've been..._sensitive_ to certain things. My reach isn't vast nor is it strong, but in simple terms you'll be sure to understand: I hear things." He looked around, making sure the words sank into everybody, "I hear things few others do."

She took his words in for a moment. After ineffectively mouthing the beginnings of several sentences she found a voice again, "And this...these senses of yours...you used them to help me escape."

Rakii grunted "Well, 'escaped's' a funny word to use."

"I did everything I could." Clo answered, "I felt a presence and I did what came natural. In all honesty though, _you_ were the one who convinced me to help. You were very persuasive."

"Girl, you shoulda seen Clo later that day," Rakii cut in, "The way he was talkin' 'bout you, you'da thought you'd actually made it out. Damn, you'da thought he had _money_ riding on it."

The avian looked around for humored faces but found none. It was pretty obvious that no one, her especially, had any interest in being reminded of the defeat of one of their own, especially one who'd come so close. They all joked around harmlessly enough, but she could see it in their eyes and the way they spoke that they had been dealt a blow by her defeat same as her, a defeat she didn't remember in any real way outside of the empty feeling she got in her gut when Narzine had started this.

It was a strange feeling to be viewed in such a light by these weathered, unseemly individuals she'd only just met, individuals who were incarcerated for committing acts similar to the one they now practically revered her for. And to have let them all down... She could honestly say it made her feel genuinely awful.

Rakii's face faded from irreverent to reserved. He cleared his throat and tried to save some face, "Well, power to ya all the same. Heard you led the boys on a merry chase; I throw a mean cross but I don't got whatever moves that got you through the detail they sent to cart you away. Y'know?"

Tearahan slapped his arm, "Just shut up, Rakii, let her eat. Goddamn, the way you pine for war stories..." She was silently thankful for his intervention. She didn't want to reminisce about something she knew nothing about.

"Someone's gonna have to explain all this psychic bullshit to me." Narzine said curtly.

Clo seemed happy to oblige, "It's 'technically psychic' the way this canned slop is 'technically cryofrozen.' It's just some wild goose chase the boys in the lab probably fished outa the trash and proved to be half-way successful."

Narzine squinted a bit while he downed his drink and asked innocently "You think only half?"

Clo gave him a matter-of-fact kind of look and nodded, "Well, I'm still here aren't I? I know how this stuff works; they wanted to strike one out with me fifteen years ago. As evidence by these shit clothes on my back and this slop in front of me, they obviously didn't. Nothin' else to say."

She exhaled at his words and looked to her own food. Most everyone else had cleaned their trays and she didn't want to go through the day on an empty stomach. She pushed all these new revelations out of her head and tried to focus entirely on how horrible this food was _not_ going to be.

Ugh, it really looked nasty. It wasn't actually a solid gray mush; it did have chunks. Of what, she couldn't really tell. She assumed they were some kind of vegetable. She was hoping this food substitute wasn't an acquired taste and actually had some flavorful merit; she wasn't looking forward to spending the next several years getting used to eating "it."

Before she could finally take a bite she heard Oblak speak up, "I kinda like the clothes."

Everyone at the table started laughing. She didn't see why but she assumed it had something to do with Oblak's irrelevance. Or maybe they actually found it funny. Maybe she'd forgotten how to laugh.

Regardless, for the moment, she watched the company of forgotten criminals making merry and tried to find her own solace in the warmth around her. If she hadn't been so distant she might have felt the corners of her mouth tugging upward in an amused little grin.

"'Course y'do, big bro," Clo said warmly, reaching around her to pat him on the arm.

Narzine said "What I'd give, Clo, to bunk up with you two. Sure as hell be more interesting than whatever it is Rakii says these days."

Clo and Rakii both laughed and Rakii said "Maybe if you'd actually work up the stones to _spar_ every so often we'd have a little flare in our routines."

"Or a little spark in your bedroom," Tearahan prodded passively to the amusement of everybody but Rakii and Narzine.

"Oh yeah?" Rakii countered, smiling, "And what kinda traffic do _you_ got goin' through your bunk these days? Oh wait, it's...coming back to me..." Tearahan just snorted and shrugged his friend off.

She paid no mind and stuck a spoonful of the gray mud onto her quivering tongue. It was, in a word...dry. It tasted like any kind of grain-based product with a lightly bitter aftertaste. The chunks never stayed solid long enough to taste but they gave her a reason to chew. And before she knew it, half of it was gone already.

"_What sorcery is this?"_

While she packed away her breakfast, Rakii continued his little joust, "What was it again, Tearahan?"

"Nothing." Clo gave.

Rakii's face lit up sarcastically and he turned to the others for affirmation, "Hm, oh yeah- The _vampire!_"

"How _ever_ could we forget." Narzine said.

"You know I hate it when you call her that." Tearahan asserted.

"Yeah, that's why we do it." Narzine said.

Tearahan sat up, "You know it's not her fault that she needs to stay asleep during the day cycle; she's sensitive to light."

"But not to your _smoldering heart._" Clo joked, resting his cheek on his hands and fluttering his eyelids.

"You know what, screw you people. You wouldn't know how to treat any kind of woman if you saw one- No offense, newbie." he said with absolution. She hummed in contentment.

"And neither would you, apparently. I mean, come on; you're already alone, you're already sleeping in the same room, she's already a lyin' down... _Make somethin'_ of it." Rakii said with a studious tone.

Clo looked humorously offended, "I'd like to think that we've all collectively evolved past the point of interpreting solitude and vulnerability as grounds for courtship, Casanova."

Rakii looked lost, so Narzine cut in, "Meas he don't wanna screw when it's dark."

"Or non-consensual, asshole." Tearahan added sullenly.

After another ten minutes of this, the guards began to reform and assemble near the doors of the cafeteria. They all got up somewhat in unison, leaving their trays and utensils for someone else (probably Gladys) to clean up and they all marched back through the hallways, back to the outer level where the transports and anti-grav capsules were waiting. The whole gang bid curt farewell nods to each other that were practiced and just out of the sight of the guard detail. Once again she was strapped in to the right of Clo.

Before they'd gotten on she'd made an effort to get a bit closer to Clo and, when she was sure she was in a blind spot, she tapped his hand. He cracked his thumb knuckle as if to signal that she had gotten his attention.

"I, um," she stated lowly and with unease, not used to this sort of...thing, "I just wanted to thank you for help when I was...you know. So...thank you."

He didn't say anything back but she kept his eye when they were loaded onto the craft and strapped in. She could see a humble reply in his strange alien eyes. The ride back was the same as the ride over. Within moments they were back in the cozy confines of the cell, and somehow it felt better knowing that there was indeed life outsider of these four impenetrable walls. It wasn't long before she was eager to return to the cafeteria and be amongst the living yet again.

* * *

And return to the living she did. After another four hours they were all escorted back to the cafeteria for a midday meal; same grub, same drill. They received their goo, took their places and commenced to making fun at the expense of each other. It wasn't something she understood but, at the same time, it made all the sense in the world to her.

These were all men in the dregs of the universe, condemned to this place for the remainder of an indefinite eternity. They didn't have possessions or occupations or aspirations- They didn't even have their memories for comfort. All they had was the company of their ilk, their fellows in failed crime. They all seemed to lean on each other in some way or another, like a rickety house of multifaceted cards; some for moral or emotional support, others as the only source of entertainment they had left, and some as a way to discharge stress and frustration in a way that wouldn't end them up in the labs. But above all, they were all the only constants left in each others lives. In an existence where everything you know can be taken away, this camaraderie was something that held on.

And then they all separated once more and she found herself back behind the four walls, with the intrepid Clo and simple Oblak to keep her company inside and the hazy view of the prison ever-present outside. Every so often she would see a guard walk by or a transport cruise between the two levels. The world continued on.

She got into the habit of dragging her bed over to the plexiglass doorway with the head against the glass, and she would always move it back into place when she sensed time was drawing near to depart for meal time. Until then, though, she was able to scrunch up at the head of her mattress- knees against her chest, arms folded over them and chin resting on her arms- and just stare off into the distance. The overlapping colors of the world churned steadily within her nebulous purple orbs, everything about her face tranquil except the eyes. They always had a fire in them that was unaffected by the amenities of this place that tried to lull her into a sense of comfort and security.

Talking with her cell mates became the only other source of activity, and through this she learned something else about Clo that he hadn't been too keen on telling her: He remembered.

He remembered nearly everything about his life before this prison; childhood, his job, his friends and family and even the smaller things like his first home of his own, his favorite food, his favorite movie, lyrics to song she'd never heard and sounds of beaches she'd never been to. This knowledge didn't surprise her as much as one would think; Clo was not young, and some privileges must have come with age in this place.

"_They don't much care what a washed up old con like me knows."_ He'd said, _"Not like I'll be going anywhere."_

As true as that may or may not have been, that didn't stop her form taking a child-like interest in him and his experiences. It'd been a slow prying process and she came to deduct that the others either didn't know about Clo's intact memory or were just as disinterested in it as he was. Either way, _she_ was interested, and she was coming to learn that she had a tendency to "latch on to things."

As she curled up in her sheets at the end of her bed she learned that Clo had been a space traveler serving whatever planet he was from (The identity of which had been one of the few things she wasn't able to pry out). But whatever this mystery planet was, their space program had still been in its maiden stages and Clo had been sure he would retire before he saw the fruits of he and his government's labor. But on a routine flight that was slated to be his last- when it had been just him and a team of trainees- they'd found an anomaly in the black void of space, and suddenly their galaxy was millions of light years away. Before they knew it they were being sucked into a gravity well and their ship taken hostage in the hanger of none other than the Eridanus IV.

Their ship had been stocked with weapons, enough to arm just the crew and just enough munitions to instill a _bit_ of false hope. He told her with steely eyes that he and his team had their orders and that not one "extraterrestrial" was to compromise their ship or any "intel" they might have held. He told her that it had been a stupid move, trying to resist. They held no vital intelligence or damning secrets. They were strictly there for training the newbies. They weren't soldiers. Needless to say, it had been a short fight, leaving only him alive. They'd spaced the bodies of his team. Their corpses, he'd said, were the last he'd seen of his own species.

_There'd been four of them. Two crewmen (or, as he'd said, a crewman and crewwoman), a pilot and a commander- Clo. The two crew were a good pair, he said. They had lots of potential in their respective fields. One was "meticulous as all hell" and the other was "sharp as a knife." Their pilot was fresh out of flight school and made up for his inexperience with a sharp tongue; he was funny, Clo had said. He was confident that the group would operate like a well-oiled machine from now 'til after he'd stepped down._

_None of that had meant anything when the bulkhead of their ship was sawed open and the clean & sweep team threw smoke in. The crewmen had the largest of their firearms and had taken positions near the wall of smoke- one prone, one standing against the bulkhead- when the shooting started. The Sharp One had been shot clean through the head and gone down quick, weapon clattering to the deck. The Meticulous One caught her body and threw it against the first shock trooper to appear from the haze, stumbling it. The Meticulous One kicked the Sharp One's gun back to Clo and kicked the other shock trooper in the gut, pressing his weapon to its helmeted head and blowing both to bits._

_By then the other trooper had pushed the corpse aside. The Meticulous one dropped to one knee and spun, jamming the barrel of his gun into the trooper's gut and firing again. The trooper shot back against the wall and crumpled in a blast of smoke and sparks, squirming away with one hand over the smoking hole in its vest. It raised its sidearm and shot the Meticulous one twice, sending him reeling onto his back, then motionless. The young pilot and Clo both exchanged an all-or-nothing look and broke cover, Clo gripping his weapon and making a mad dash for the corner leading to the cockpit, the pilot covering him close by. The pilot fired once behind him, the scattershot weapon merely peppering the armor of the trooper ahead. It twitched then shot the pilot in the head. He'd been running and his body slid down to stop behind Clo's feet, tripping him. He recovered, ran into the control room and purged all their flight data. _

_A trooper charged in behind him. Clo spun and rushed him, using his gun like a club. The two wrestled for control. Clo thrust the weapon down and elbowed the trooper in the gut. The trooper head butted him. In a blur he unsheathed the trooper's knife and a tangle of limbs clashed between the them, the blade inches from the trooper's throat, the gun swaying between them. The gun fired several times into the ceiling. The trooper thrust the weapon up, elbowed him Clo in the throat and turned the barrel of his own weapon into his chest. At the last minute Clo swiped the barrel and felt it discharge into his shoulder. The knife clattered to the floor and he collapsed. Another blow to his skull put him out._

It wasn't a story she expected someone to be able to maintain composure while telling, but he had. He had many years to think about it, to remember every detail as it had happened. It seemed their were some memories that one wouldn't want to remember.

She asked him how specifically he was able to remember. Apparently, he said, the effects of temporal conditioning fade after a long enough run without therapy. That explained why he was able to remember with such clarity and Rakii couldn't tell you what he did one week ago. He told her that if she kept her head down for long enough time she would be able to remember as he did, but only if she kept her head down and only if she remained for as long as he had.

"_One day you'll be able to remember all your birthdays,"_ he'd said, _"All your achievements, all your friends, family. And believe me, kid, it will _suck_. You'll spend all day in bed tearin' yourself up. But after a while...you'll get used to it. You'll remember that remembering ain't so bad."_

She'd fallen silent after hearing that, a break from the rapid-fire questioning of just earlier. Clo had sighed and said _"Hell, maybe you'll be able to figure out who that 'Zim' is, huh?"_

_Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage_

_rageragerageragerageragerage rageragerageragerageragerage ragerageragragerageragerager ageragerageragerageragerager ageragerageragerageragerager ageragerageragerageragragera gerageragerageragerageragera gerageragerageragerageragera gerageragerageragerageragera geragragerageragerageragerag erageragerageragerageragerag erageragerageragerageragerag erageragerageragrageragerage rageragerageragerageragerage rageragerageragerageragerage ragerageragerageragerageragr ageragerageragerageragerager ageragerageragerageragerager ageragerageragerageragerager agerageragrageragerageragera gerageragerageragerageragera gerageragerageragerageragera geragerageragerageragragerag eragerageragerageragerage_

"_Yeah,"_ she'd muttered in response, her eyes far away yet again.

* * *

After a while the routine wasn't even a part of it anymore. This prison became her life. The rituals she added only further served to solidify it.

In the mornings she would stay curled in her sheets and feel the subtle hums and vibrations of the complex and let the collective din of Clo and Oblak usher her into consciousness. Then she would join in their talks, mostly just listening. The same was true for their meals with the rest of the gang but when she was with them she could feel herself coming out of her shell. She now contributed her own opinions to their discussions and traded banter with them. She could feel herself rapidly becoming a staple in their little circle.

After several weeks she was brought away for her first work duty. They usually came in the afternoon or evening, before or after lunch. She was always paired with another inmate and she was starting to build up a sizable knowledge of who was who within the prison. She didn't socialize much with them outside of the standard exchange of names and occasional observation but it was good to speak to people. Every so often she'd get paired with a member of their group and those were always the best days. She had taken a liking to everyone; the crass, irreverent stream of words that was Rakii, the grounded honesty and moral aptitude of Tearahan, even the outspoken sourpuss Narzine who seemed to go out of his way to get a rise from her.

The work details were pretty standard, or at least what she knew as standard. Most of the time they were cleaning and fitting pipelines and maintaining ducts, other times they were harnessed up and suspended over the drop fixing the undercarriages of transport craft of the support superstructure of the platforms. None of it was truly substantial but work was work. The only down-side was that it always left her tired, which took some of the steam out of the following lunch or dinner.

And finally, come evening, it was back to just her, Clo and Oblak. After a certain hour a remote system was activated in the table at the center of their cell and a holographic entertainment system was displayed for a total of four hours. It was mostly simple games; chess, puzzles, brain teasers, card-based competitive games, ect. Clo seemed very fond of the card games and never wasted an opportunity to play her and Oblak in matches he almost always won. The table supplied them with digital chips so they were aloud make wagers. It was good fun, something she couldn't remember having in a long time, and she only wished that the rest of the group could join in. Clo always said that "If he _had_ a daughter, he'd sooner trust Rakii with _her_ than with a hand of cards."

And when they shut the table down for the night they just talked. She would manage to coax another life tale form Clo and she would take those stories to heart each time she went to sleep.

* * *

"Three, two, one- _Go!_" Rakii announced, pounding a fist onto the table.

Clo commenced to singing a spirited song while Tearahan commenced to ravenously cleaning his tray, all the while Narzine counted backwards from fifty and she counted upward to fifty. This was (apparently) a type of eating challenge that pit Clo against the rest of the table; the goal was to finish the song without slurring, stuttering or pausing before Tearahan could finish his breakfast. The added challenge was her and Narzine's counting, which would work to offset Clo's "rhythm" as he put it.

The game itself wasn't as entertaining as those who were involved; tensions were sure to build to comical levels and the back-and-forth of this group never failed to amuse. That, and she enjoyed hearing the songs Clo had to sing as it gave her more insight to his background.

Clo made it two verses in before his words stumbled over themselves. He immediately closed his eyes and silenced, save a long, drawn out "Shit."

Tearahan nearly choked on his food as he let out a laugh of victory, him and Rakii slapping their hands together in a gesture she came to recognize as a friendly gesture between the triumphant. Or something to that degree. Narzine leaned back, outstretched his arms began to the ridicule.

"_Oh_-ho-ho! The mighty _Clo_- _elder_ of Block C26, _swindler_ of both the rich hand the poor, _bane_ of twelve systems- can't even finish his own damn song.!" he called.

"Geez, good thing you slipped up, old man; thought Tears here was gonna choke!" added, elbowing his friend.

"Mmfurgmpfmf," Tearahan gave. He pounded on the table and somehow managed to force the goop down, "I wouldn't have been the only one, you stutterin' coot."

"Ah, g-g-g-g-g-get bent, Scales." Clo responded.

* * *

"Prisoner six-seven-one-five," the guard sounded off at the doorway, "Present yourself with your arms raised and exit the cell."

Despite the harsh, vaguely threatening tone she was devoid of worry. This was routine; they would put her against the wall, pat her down and ship her off for work duties. She hoped they assigned her something worth her attention today. Nothing was more difficult than focusing on a boring chore. At least difficulty brought with it intrigue.

She sat up from her bed, nodded a goodbye to her cell mates and exited, arms outstretched. The there were four guards. One took each of her arms and pressed her against the wall, her back to them. One guard gave her the pat down; under her arms, down her sides, hips and legs, all without infraction. They escorted her into the transport, strapped her in and they were off. Things seemed to be looking up when they cruised to a halt by another cell and Narzine was called out. They frisked him, strapped him in on the opposite side of her and then zoomed off again. They'd both smirked at each other as he was brought on board.

They touched down on one of the lower levels. An industrial red hue overtook everything down here in the narrows, blanketed with shifting drapes of vapor and scalding droplets of emulsion and coolant. Despite the inhospitable working conditions down here, it was considerably warmer than the upper levels, making it that much more comfortable, made it easier to get lost in her tasks, which made time pass with greater speed.

And pass it did. About three hours were lost in a blur of machinery, sparks and heavy lifting until Narzine reappeared from the steam, his shirt tied around his waist, revealing a toned lavender torso glistening with sweat and adorned in a multitude of swollen scars, all of which looked very old, possibly inflicted all at once. He was huffing and puffing, as was she, and he weakly waved at her before sitting down on a stack of tool crates, wiping his brow with the leave hanging at his waist. Exhausted, she briefly nodded at him before lifting a bulky cooling cell into its slot in the wall and shoving it into place. She drilled the holes for the bolts, twisted them tight and replaced the wall panel.

She tossed her tools into a crate before sitting down as well. She looked over at Narzine, who was hanging his head low while she preferred to lean back. She chuckled and wiped her face off with her shirt.

Breathless, she said "Must've...been a long day...if you're already poppin' your top..." She attempted a laugh but it turned into a shaky sigh. He raised half his brow and gave her a look that said "Nice try."

"Well...feel free...to do the same...at this point I _could not_ care." He huffed back, obviously just as tired. They were really being run ragged today, "Not like you...got much...under there, anyway- Screw it, I'm too beat to make a joke..." He exhaled deeply.

They sat there for about ten minutes until Narzine spoke again, having regained some composure in his voice. "Hey," he got up, "We got about five 'til the craft gets here. You know how they bitch when we don't clean up our toys."

"Or _their_ toys." She corrected, eyes scanning above them.

As they were loading and stacking the equipment crates, Narzine's face grew steadily more and more perturbed. Each time she stacked a box she caught a glimpse of it, and it was starting to make her uneasy. After a while she decided to put and end to it.

"So are you gonna frown all day or are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

He seemed taken back but in a relieved way, "Actually, I, um...I'm glad to brought it up."

"And what is 'it?'" She said inquisitively.

Narzine hefted the final tool kit to the top of his stack, ready to be loaded up by their guard detail, "Well, though I may not resonate it, I managed to snag a 'good behavior' detail a little while back. They pulled me after lunch and dropped me in some research wing splicing cables and dusting breakers. Easy work, but _long._ I was there well-into lights out, so I decided to do some..._digging._"

_Narzine locked his arms around the engineer's neck and kicked out the back of his knee. He slammed his face into the terminal he'd gotten up from before the convict had killed the power to the room and snuck up behind him. He slammed his face into the desk a second time for emphasis and grabbed a handful of the spines that ran down his head, jerking it back, "Pull up the sheet you have on six-seven-one-five." The engineer complied, logging into the classified file. Narzine threw the worker to the side against the wall, snatching the pen from his lab coat breast pocket. He composed a very moving, convincing suicide note and then jabbed the pen repeatedly into the engineer's throat. The room was re-lit, the terminal was re-closed and Narzine was gone before the guards discovered the scene. _

"You did, did you?" she said with curiosity.

"Yeah. And I know that you've had more trouble with the..." his finger floated around his head, "the _memory loss_ business than most. Most importantly, you can't remember your name, right?"

"Narzine, what did you do?" she asked, eyes widening.

"I helped out a friend," he said earnestly, "I dug up your file and did some reading."

He saw that she was about to say something and he cut her off, "Tak."

_Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage Unexplained anger impeccable hate foreign rage_

She was suddenly shocked with a flurry of sensations and emotions that hit her like a sucker-punch in the gut. A massively painful ache began to radiate from her forehead and all throughout her skull. Suddenly it didn't feel like there were only two of them standing here in the narrows, there were three of them now, only the third was in her head- A completely sentient, near-omniscient being that had taken root in her mind, waiting for Narzine's words to nurture it like water. And now this third entity was battling her for control.

_Tak_

She heard the name said in her own voice, shaking and unfamiliar, like an orphaned concept. Then she heard it in this new entity's voice; it sounded just like her, but at the same time foreign in every conceivable way- Harsh, combative and prestigious.

Than she heard it said in a different voice entirely, belonging to no one she knew. But no, she _did_ know this being. Even if she didn't know that she knew, she _knew. _It was a voice unlike any other, and it said her name with a condescending venom that was unmatched.

"Hey, are you okay?" Narzine said, breaking the blur of pain and confusion, "You don't look too cool."

She staggered back, hand on her head, eyes clenched tight. Narzine stepped forward, "Hey, Tak-"

"S-Stop," she pleaded through clenched teeth and fell to her knees.

The transport craft arrived. A low hum accompanied it as it set down and let off a group of guards, five in all. Two passed the green girl on her knees to see to the crates while the other three saw to her. One of them grabbed her shoulders and hauled her up. Narzine's sense of danger kicked in and he knew he had to intervene.

"Hey, wait- _Tak!_"

As they began to drag her away he tried to rush forward and was halted by the two guards. He punched one in the jaw and staggered him. He tired to move forward but the second one cut him off. Narzine swung on him but this guard was ready. He ducked the right cross and grabbed Narzine's arm with both hands, twisting it back and pushing him to his knees before him, holding his arm outward, ready to dislocate the shoulder if needed. Narzine grunted in discomfort as he watched his friend being carried away.

She didn't look like much anymore; her eyes were squinted and cloudy, her body was slack and she was moaning in agony. The guards paid no mind, just carrying out their orders. Then she snapped tout like a rope.

She cocked her head back, headbutting the guard in the face. He crumpled and she spun, her elbow striking him again in the face. She kicked him in the ribs, pushing him away from her. Another guard came at her, this one armed with one of those batons. He drove it downward, directed at the top of her skull. She hunched down and leaned into him, his armed limb falling across her shoulders. Using his momentum, she wrapped one arm around his thigh and flipped him over her, snatching his bludgeon away from him as he crashed behind her.

Narzine knew he couldn't do anything else in his position without snapping his limb, so he reversed it. He rolled forward, carrying the surprised guard with him and freeing the leverage he had on his arm. He came to a stop on his back next to the guard, who was less poised. He punched the trooper in the throat and shot up.

"_Tak!_"

He saw the girl poised to counter the next guard's strike when a shot rang out and her shoulder punched back, the baton dropping from her grasp. She went down seizing, the unseen sixth guard on the transport armed with a riot rifle being the cause. Narzine was too preoccupied watching her go down to detect the guard he'd punched come up behind him and clock the back of his skull with his baton. He went down just as fast as her.

And so the cycle would continue, only this time something was added into the mix.

Now, like Clo, she remembered.

No names, no dates, no places, but instead, the very _essence_ associated with those things. Everything she'd ever felt before had come back to live in her again. And from what she could discern from the acid feeling in her gut and the intense rage in her mind, she truly had some unburied demons.

For the first week she was a blank slate, but after the first week she was back up to full speed. The recovery had shocked everyone around her, everyone but Narzine, who had been wiped same as her. Because of the rarity of such an occasion, it would be a much longer recovery for him. For now, he wasn't the same as when they'd been working down in the narrows, before she had to go an ruin everything for everyone (or at least, that's how she felt about it). To her, Narzine was the first of many casualties.

The prospect scared her. But now, after what had happened, she found herself in a state of heightened tension. She was always wound up now, always on alert, always thinking and calculating. There was now a subtle aggression to everything to she, from going about her duties to talking with her table mates. She knew something was going to happen soon, and she knew that she would be at the center of it.

But above all, she knew that she had a _name. _Though she didn't know what it was, just the idea was enough to re-light her fire.

In the cell, Clo hid the smile he had as a result of his winning hand. He also tried his best to ignore the rhythmic, dull _thuds_ emanating from behind Oblak. Their green friend had just been the victim of an Epiphany of Self and was intent of making sure everyone around her knew about it. Quite obnoxious, really.

She had gotten into the habit of training morning and night; along with various exercises she had taken to shadowboxing. Right now, her mattress was propped up against Oblak's back and she was going to town on it, pelting it with a steady stream of jabs, crosses and hooks. Oblak had no qualms about it. With his thick torso and the padding of the mattress, he hardly felt any of it; it was like a back massage to him.

"Could you maybe work a little lower, please?" he requested, and the girl shifted her strikes downward. Oblak smiled and continued to play. Clo rolled his eyes.

"Gotta wonder if that actually feels as good as you're making it look." Clo said.

She stopped for a moment, breathing hard, "Why don't...you and Oblak switch places and we'll...see what then."

Clo's eye were wide as could be. He looked at her, than at Oblak, then back at her, "Oh-_ho_, god_damn!_ Was that a joke she just made?" She ignored him and went back to her punches. Clo added "There might be hope for you yet, girl."

The table shut down before he could finish his hand. He sighed and clambered into his bed. Oblak did the same.

But the girl didn't. She set the mattress against the wall instead and continued with her drills. Jab-jab-cross-hook, jab-jab-cross-hook. Clo frowned and rolled over in his bed, "You plan on doing that for too much longer, sweetheart?"

"I'm not sweet and I have no heart," she said with overt theatricality, clearly less than serious. Clo chuckled and muttered "Ain't that the freakin' truth. Like I didn't know that."

"What's it to you, anyway?" she asked in a haggard voice, still pounding away.

"Oh, y'know, just the usual thing; it's damn annoying listening to you go to work on that thing, especially since it reminds me how much it hurts to throw a punch."

"Then maybe you should join me, kick off some of that dust." she said absently.

Clo squinted at her, though she wasn't facing him, "Who says I have dust?"

"_No one_ has to say it, you're making it perfectly clear yourself."

She snorted cynically and laid back, trying to ignore the sounds of her training, "Well then, screw you too, ma'am."

"Not a ma'am, either," she amended.

"Well, you're sure as hell not acting like a 'Girl,' so I'll call you what fits. _Ma'am._" Clo jabbed.

"What's your idea of a girl, Clo?" she asked skeptically.

"Just anyone who makes me happy, but with hips."

She was silent for a while, then said "And I assume I'm failing at both?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Clo teased, smiling.

"Ma'am, why _are_ you working so hard? It's time for sleep, time to relax." Oblak asked.

"Oh, so _he_ get to call you 'ma'am.'" Clo whined.

"I am _training_, Oblak." she amended.

A pause. Then, from Oblak, "Training for what?"

She hit the mattress with a full barrage, finishing with a jumping spin kick before falling back to a sitting position, head hanging down. "Training for what's coming," she said.

That seemed to grab Clo's interest. He became serious and asked "And what's supposed to be 'coming?'"

She stood, placed her mattress back on the bed frame and said, "We're leaving this place. We're getting out."

She saw his mouth open and she knew she had to plug the holes in her dam of words, "Just stop, Clo, stop and _listen_ to me. I know everything you're going to say. I've _lived_ it, Clo. I've lived it long enough now to know that I cannot stay here. And I know that we're all capable of forging our own freedom. _All_ of us; you, me, Oblak, Rakii and the others- This whole damned _populace._"

She stepped forward and grabbed a hold of Clo's upper bed frame, pulling herself up to be face-to-face with him, "The people running this place have made the mistake of putting themselves in the same space as an army of killers. The only thing that keeps us from retaking what's ours is a plate of glass and a fear of reprisal, which I don't have. That's what I've come to learn in this place: I have _never_ feared whatever's to come. That's why we're all getting out, every one of us."

She leaned in to the point where they were almost touching, "And we're doing it before the week is out."

**Three Days Later**

Tearahan returned from dinner to a cell that, as he already knew, was darker than all of the others around him. The guards escorted him in and locked the door behind him, leaving him in the dark that hugged him like a glove.

He sat down on his bed and let his face rest in his hands. Something was in there with him and it sensed how distraught he was. It called to him.

"Tearahan?" The voice was weary but not I any way weak. It was lilting and lyrical but still dry and rough- Truly unique, he thought. And it always made him feel good when it said his name.

He got up and crossed the small room, sitting down on the adjacent bed. He reached out to softly cup a face lying beside him. He felt it recoil purely on instinct and past experience before settling.

"Yes, Mikela?"

"I just...I just wanted to know if it was you."

"It's me." he affirmed.

He thought he heard her chuckle, "I know that now."

They sat in the dark for a while, just enjoying that they were, for once, completely aware of their worlds. The darkness obscured everything but the two of them, and that was all they each needed to be aware of right now.

"Mikela, I need to tell you something. It's...it's important."

He didn't see her face, but he knew it looked like a toss-up between worried and curious.

He allowed himself to go on, "You...you might be able to go home soon. To the Mother Dark."

He heard and felt her sit up, "How? I thought you said-"

"I've said many things. But just know that I'm serious. Something..._big_ is going to happen."

Now she was upright, he could tell. He could barely make out the outline of her, like a shapely wisp in the dark that she called home. Then she was upon him, arms around his neck, head against his shoulder. Initially estranged, he brought his hands up to return the embrace.

He felt her shiver, "C-could you n-not-" Her voice was sounded very vulnerable and uneven.

"Oh, sorry, sorry." He let her go and she detached form him, snuggling back under her blankets.

"When?" she asked, "When can we go home?"

He stroked her cheek once, everything he knew about safety, security and freedom as well as responsibility and guardianship running through his head like a crashing tide, all stemming from this being before him.

"Tomorrow."

Author's Note: We're nearly there, my friends. I plan on having the next chapter up before Christmas. Let me know your thoughts on the characters and dialog and whatnot, as those seem to be be areas where this story has grown the most. Hopefully, XCOM won't steal me away for too long and I'll be able to crank out Tak's triumpant escape, putting her on the fast-track to her reunion with Zim.


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